


The Hamper

by popatochisp



Series: Swapfell Indigo [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Swapfell (Undertale), Angst, Anxiety, Babybones (Undertale), Backstory, Bad Parenting, Brother Feels, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Coming of Age, Escape, Family, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Growth, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, Injury, Medical Experimentation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Scientist W. D. Gaster, Self-Esteem Issues, Sort Of, Strained Relationships, Swapfell Papyrus (Undertale), Swapfell Sans (Undertale), W. D. Gaster Being An Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popatochisp/pseuds/popatochisp
Summary: A collection of extras for my fic, Dirty LaundryWill likely contain everything from extra world-building to missing scenes and other such post-scripts. So far, probably not totally necessary to have read DL to understand, but strongly encouraged by a very biased party (me)!
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale), Papyrus & Undyne (Undertale)
Series: Swapfell Indigo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839943
Comments: 113
Kudos: 503





	1. Bleach Spots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-explicit descriptions of violence and death, emotional abuse, medical experimentation/abuse, young skeletons in bad situations

The first thing he knows is…

Well.

Not much.

His sockets gaze blearily upon the world—a haze of cyan, a dark room beyond it, a person, frowning at him—and knowing what precisely none of those things are, he resolves to go back to sleep.

Altogether a quiet, uneventful beginning…

Which is probably why it’s not the one he remembers.

 _He_ remembers the violent awakening.

The blare of loud alarms, soothing cyan to ominous red, _pain_ in his chest and his limbs and his _head_ as a person runs around the laboratory doing a lot of things _very_ quickly and he knows with certainty that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

The person grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him out of the tank he’s in, shoving all kinds of tools and paper pads off of the nearest table to drop him onto it instead.

They hold him there, tearing nodes and wires off of his wet skull and spine, scanning him urgently while he rattles and struggles to breathe.

He doesn’t know how he knows what these things are.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

He doesn’t know who this person is or _what_ they’re doing, but…

He thinks they’re trying to help him.

Their hand moves down to his humerus as they examine him, their grip still almost _punishingly_ tight.

Somehow…it’s a welcome distraction from Everything Else.

He looks at the hand as the person in the lab coat does whatever they need to do: he counts the phalanges, reciting each segment’s name in his head, from the clawed distals to the proximals and starting over again when he ran out…

(How does he know the names of these bones? Where could he possibly have learned this? _When_ did he even learn to _count?!_ )

Too many questions without answers, especially for someone whose soul was ‘resonating irregularly’…whatever _that_ meant.

He keeps looking at the hand.

There’s a hole in it, straight through the middle.

This is Sans’ first memory.

-

The person in the lab coat says his name is ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎.

Sans can see the symbols—the _words_ —as they’re spoken and he asks what it means that he can see them.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ sighs, but says that it’s his font.

 _All_ skeleton monsters have fonts, he explains, and can perceive the speech of other monsters both visually and aurally.

When Sans asks why, he frowns and says _all_ monsters have abilities unique to their subspecies and that’s just the way it is.

(Sans thinks that means he doesn’t know, either.)

Still, a lot of important things come from this line of questioning.

“AM I A SKELETON MONSTER, TOO?”

Yes, like ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is, made from the same dust and magic.

“YOU MADE ME?”

Yes, through ‘unconventional means,’ but ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is unequivocally his creator.

“ARE YOU MY FATHER?”

Maybe not, from the silent, deadpan stare ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ levels at him…

“…WHAT DOES MY FONT LOOK LIKE?”

‘Comic Sans Serif,’ ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ says, checking some notes on a clipboard. Upper-case, which is ‘respectable,’ apparently.

And so Sans learns his name.

-

Sans learns many more things, in the days to come.

He’s the result of an experiment—what kind, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ refused say, no matter how much Sans prodded—and as far as results go, he is…lacking.

He _only_ has 1 HP and had a _very_ poor response to the artificial age-acceleration that proved he was _never_ going to grow out of it naturally.

The fact that he could speak and had at least a basic understanding of the world around him was a small silver lining, as ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ had no time to raise a child from scratch and teach him _every little thing_ , but overall…

Sans is _not_ what ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ wanted.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is not his father, he learns, but _will_ be his guardian for the foreseeable future, and as such, he is to do as he is told and cause as little bother as monsterly possible—to make it as painless as it can be for the both of them.

Sans doesn’t know yet, what ‘it’ is, but ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ made him; answered his questions and kept him from dusting.

He _tries_ to cooperate.

…But the rules are hard to feel out when there’s so _many_ of them that went unspoken.

Asking questions is allowed, unless he asks too many, or asks when ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is busy.

Occupying himself with doodles or books is (sometimes) allowed, but if he can’t get a scribble to look right or a sentence is too hard to understand, that’s ‘not his problem’ or he should ‘figure it out.’

Perhaps most confusingly, even _completely_ silent, holding onto ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s lab coat or sitting ‘too close’ to him is still _very_ bothersome and Sans is _not_ supposed to do those things, no matter _what._

………

Sans tries to cooperate.

But it’s hard.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ _snaps_ at him one day, saying that if he has enough energy to be so irritating, then maybe it’s time to start his training.

Sans doesn’t know what ‘training’ will entail, but he knows that doing what he’s told is one of the Official Rules.

So, Sans cooperates.

-

Training is…fine.

Sans learns how to initiate Encounters, how to form bullets, how to make patterns, and how to dodge.

He learns the different types of magic and what each color does, and finds that green bullets are very easy for him to make.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ isn’t impressed—those will _help_ his opponent in battle, useless unless he’s trying to drag things out longer.

Inefficient.

Do better.

Sans learns how to harness purple magic instead, finding it funny to watch his guardian hop between paths, avoiding his bullets.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ approves…but still doesn’t seem impressed.

He writes a lot of things after their Encounters, jotting down words Sans can’t see—but he thinks he gets the gist from the muttering.

‘Only _1_ damage per bullet’… ‘decent magic output, but his _HP’_ … ‘wouldn’t stand a _chance’…_

Sans learns that he is a disappointment.

When the training is done, when Sans has practiced all the forms, perfected his patterns, taught his body to twist and turn on a dime, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ comes to him.

This is the best Sans is going to get, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ tells him. If he wants to be better, if he wants to be stronger…they’re going to have to experiment a bit.

Sans doesn’t know why he needs to be stronger.

But he knows he doesn’t want to be a disappointment.

“OKAY,” he replies. “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?”

-

………

Sans doesn’t like the experiments.

They aren’t so bad, at first—drink this, sit here, put this on—and Sans does as he’s told, without complaint.

…But ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ keeps pressing, and eventually he _has_ to complain.

“…I DON’T LIKE THAT ONE,” he mutters at the sight of a familiar concoction in ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s hand. “IT MAKES ME FEEL SICK.”

It’s increasing his magic output, he’s told, he _has_ to take it.

Sans spends the rest of the night feeling uncomfortably queasy.

“THE ZAPS HURT,” he protests, as ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ sticks nodes on his skull again, like maybe…if he _knew_ …

They’re not ‘zaps,’ ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ tuts, like he’d be rolling his eyes if he had any. It’s a magic infusion, meant to make it easier for Sans to use different colors of magic—he remembers how much he’d struggled with orange magic, doesn’t he?

…Sans curls his phalanges around the arms of his chair and tries to be Brave.

The world is black and Sans dodges every bullet thrown at him, desperate for his turn to come; not to FIGHT, but to…

ACT

*** Cry**

*** Beg**

*** Reason**

“I’M TIRED,” Sans says to ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎, as flatly and evenly as possible. He knows it already sounds like ‘whining,’ but, “WE’VE BEEN HERE FOR HOURS. ISN’T THERE ENOUGH DATA ALREADY?”

He’s _more_ than tired, he’s _exhausted_ : there’s sweat on his skull and a growing tremor in his bones and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is unmoved.

This is a test of Sans’ endurance, he explains. It’s useless as data if they end it before he’s really, truly spent.

And Sans just wasted his turn on an ACTion.

The bullets resume.

……Sans doesn’t know when he passes out, but he comes to with a green magic needle taped into his ulna and ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s back to him, busy analyzing the results.

He wonders if it would have been different if he’d cried instead.

-

The breaking point comes when ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ demands his soul.

“WHAT?!”

Take it out, he’s instructed sternly. ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ needs to access it directly, to see if it can be altered.

_NO!_

Everything in Sans is _screaming_ that, _no,_ his soul is…

It’s his _soul!_

His!

_Him!_

It’s all that he _is,_ the entirety of himself, as a monster; as a _person…_

And it is _not_ for ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎.

“………NO.”

Sans says it, outright, finally.

After days, weeks, months of dancing around it, he _finally_ says it: no.

“NO… NO. NO!!!”

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ doesn’t like that word.

Sans isn’t even sure he can hear it.

If he can, it doesn’t stop him from grabbing Sans by the arm and dragging him away, literally kicking and screaming.

For all of his training, for all of the experiments, Sans still isn’t strong enough against ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ to do anything but howl and squirm and cry as he’s tied down—made even _more_ helpless—and his soul is forced out of his body before his eye-sockets.

It hurts.

It hurts worse when ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ starts to poke his _tools_ around in the glowing white shape, doing stars knew what to his essence; his very _being_.

“I _HATE_ YOU,” Sans seethes through the tears. “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, _I HATE YOU!”_

He hopes it stings.

He wants to hurt ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎, the same way ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is hurting him. He wants to make him sorry, to make him _stop_ …!

But his response…

‘I don’t care.’

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ doesn’t _need_ Sans to like him, all he _needs_ is his obedience.

And as he’s proven, he can just as easily _take_ it, if Sans decides to be…difficult.

A shame ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ wasn’t able to create him without sentience entirely in the first place, but c’est la vie—this works just as well, doesn’t it?

Sans just gawps at him.

He feels…like he’s been slapped across the face…like a rug’s been pulled out from under him…

Like his guardian, his _creator_ had just betrayed him in the cruelest, coldest, most devastating, _painful_ way possible.

………

His tears won’t stop and he can’t make them, but he closes his teeth _tight_ , refusing to utter even one more sound for the rest of the ‘experiment.’

Nothing he could say would stop ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ from doing whatever he wanted.

Why _bother?_

-

The experiments continue.

Sans complies.

…He’s beginning to realize he _never_ had a choice otherwise.

-

Sans is improving, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ tells him.

His attacks are doing more damage and his endurance is considerably better than when they began, but his low HP is still a problem.

(Sans is not enough for ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎. He doubts he ever will be, or that anyone or anything could _ever_ be enough to satisfy _him._ )

(He hasn’t said a single word since The Experiment, hasn’t complained or plead or resisted, but his feelings haven’t changed.)

(He hates ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎, with every molecule in his body.)

There’s still one thing they can try, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ says, the only real tried and true way for a monster to become strong.

_LoVe._

The thing in the cage before him, trembling and sobbing, is a Whimsun—another monster, the first Sans has ever seen.

It is begging for its life, even as ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ tells him that he needs to kill it.

To get stronger.

Because he’s weak.

Sans doesn’t know why it’s _so important_ that he get stronger.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ never explained, and he’s given up on expecting him to.

Sans isn’t even sure he _cares_ why, anymore.

It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

He doesn’t know why the Whimsun is crying so hard, or what it thinks its tears are going to do, because tears never did anything for _him._

Neither did begging.

The only thing…that did _anything_ …

…was doing exactly what ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ said to do.

It made it easier.

‘As painless as it could be.’

Sans pulls the Whimsun into an Encounter.

It all but wastes its turn, blindly flinging moth-shaped bullets through the cage that Sans dodges with ease.

His training was good for something, after all.

He raises his hand, forming bullets of his own with as much power in them as he can muster.

Finally breaking his long silence, Sans speaks to the Whimsun.

“DON’T WORRY. I’LL BE QUICK.”

And he is.

………

**SANS LV 2, HP 1/4**

-

The Whimsun is not the first, nor the last.

Sans becomes stronger.

Not strong _enough_ , unfortunately, to think he has any chance of turning his practice FIGHTs with ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ into something a little less ‘practice,’ but enough that his guardian now hums over his results and examinations instead of tsk-ing.

Sans’…compliance…begins to come with perks.

His own room, separate from the laboratory, is the biggest of these perks. It has a door he can close and everything, a real luxury.

The door has no lock, of course, and there’s a camera in the corner—no true privacy here—but Sans finds he prefers the illusion of it anyway.

His ‘enrichment’ improves as well, however slightly, and Sans gradually begins to receive books and notepads of his own; no longer just ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s scraps and castoffs. He is allowed to request more, as needed—as _wanted_ , even, a ‘privilege’ he takes full advantage of.

For all the base knowledge haphazardly dumped into his skull, there’s so many things he doesn’t _know_ , and he wants to change that.

Sans wants to know all that he can, _especially_ about the world outside these cold walls, away from his cold creator.

He requests books about history, about politics, about philosophy and art.

He learns about humans and about monsters, and the latter’s…current predicament.

And despite himself, despite _everything_ , it’s the science textbooks and research papers that Sans consumes most ravenously.

Whether by nature or by nurture (or by being programmed by a scientist), it’s the graphs and diagrams that speak to him most clearly; the hard numbers that compel him, showing whatever truth they can and allowing him to interpret their meaning.

Sans requests so many math books that he’s sure ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is sick of hearing the word—but that’s hardly a deterrent.

He fills notebook after notebook with scrawled out equations, some he pulled from texts to solve and some he made on his own, just because he can.

It’s…fun?

(It feels like…)

(He _understands_ the numbers. He doesn’t have to guess at hidden motives, or wonder how they’re lying to him— _people_ lie, but numbers simply _are._ )

(He understands, he is capable, he is in _control.)_

It’s…fun.

So of course, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ finds a way to make it useful to him.

He comes into Sans’ room one day, with neither warning nor permission. He strolls right in and starts rustling through Sans’ papers, sockets and phalanges lingering over formulas and equations.

Sans would very much love to tell him to get _out_ ; to put those down, leave them alone, those are _his!_

~~Let him have one thing, _one_ thing _just_ for himself…~~

But he knows how that would go.

He sits stock-still on his cot and says nothing.

Sans is…intelligent, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ notes at length, as if it’s a surprise to him.

(Sans _hates_ that the assessment has the power to make him feel anything besides anger and disdain, that there’s even a _flicker_ of pride in his chest to hear those words—like he’s _done well_ somehow.)

Perhaps, his guardian muses, there are other ways for Sans to be useful around here with his physical training taking so long.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ brings him print-outs of raw data, long sheets of numbers that he’s told to review and analyze.

He does.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ brings him to the lab and sits him in front of a computer, instructing him to perform tasks he’s seen his guardian perform many times.

He does.

Gradually, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ passes off his most boring grunt-work to Sans, allowing him to do the data entry, to check calculations, to run some of the simpler routines of ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s _very important work_ with only minimal supervision.

Sans makes a halfway decent lab assistant, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ jokes—perhaps he should’ve been training him for _this_ instead.

Not finding it particularly funny, Sans does not laugh.

But he continues to perform admirably.

As instructed.

-

Eventually, Sans graduates to full-on gofer, sent along on errands.

Errands _outside_ the lab.

Sans knows something is up when he’s given new clothes: plain, black, nondescript, yet _leagues_ above the scrubs he’s had to wear his whole life thusfar.

He even receives his own lab coat, just his size, with an ID badge already clipped to the pocket.

He realizes fully that he’s being _tested_ when ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ shows him a map of the facility beyond this inner sanctum, the Royal Labs in their entirety, and tells him that he’s going there.

To the commissary.

To bring back a coffee.

All sorts of thoughts whirl around in Sans’ skull as he steps out of ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s lab for the first time, entirely unaccompanied.

He could run, he thinks, striding through an empty blue hallway. Just…bolt and see how far he could get…?

…But every door he comes across has an ID-scanner, and refuses to open until he scans his badge.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ wouldn’t be stupid enough to give him access to _every_ door here, and Sans would rather not think about what punishment might come from such a poorly thought out _and_ executed attempt.

Sans begins to pass other monsters in the hallway—scientists, technicians, assistants—and feels sweat prickling on the back of his cervical vertebrae.

They’re looking at him.

He’s out of place here: none of them have ever seen him before, he’s several heads shorter than _any_ of them, no one’s is going to believe that he belongs here, a…

………

 _STARS, WHAT **STUPID** AGE AM I?!_ Sans wonders, silently panicking.

What _should_ be an easy question, rendered unnecessarily complicated by ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s meddling.

Chronologically, he’s only existed for a scant handful of years. Four? Five? _Something_ like that…

Physically, his body is…at least _twice_ that, and mentally, well…his _mental_ aptitude is at the collegiate level, he _knows_ that.

But what do people _see_ , when they look at him? What do they _think?_

It isn’t long before Sans discovers the answer.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

When no one stops him, questions him, makes him explain himself, he chances a few glances around out of the corner of his eye-socket.

Monsters are looking at him, certainly…but as he continues on his way, walking with purpose—like he knows exactly where he’s going, exactly what he’s doing—they quickly lose interest.

Whatever curiosity they have about the short skeleton in their midst, retrieving a single cup of coffee (no milk, two sugars) and speaking to no one, is swiftly dismissed.

Not _that_ unusual.

~~Not their problem.~~

Sans’ task—his test—is completed successfully as he returns to ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s private lab and hands him his coffee.

Did Sans cause any _trouble_ for him? he asks slyly, undoubtedly already knowing the answer.

“NO.”

Sans _is_ smart, then.

It’s good to know that he can be trusted with simple things like this—maybe he’ll get more of them, in the future.

He does, of course.

Sans makes many coffee runs and snack trips, over and over, never stopped and never speaking a word to anyone, and all it takes is two weeks before there’s no one left who side-eyes him as he walks past.

He becomes a familiar sight to the labs’ personnel—boring, normal background, nothing remarkable.

~~None of them are going to help him.~~

-

As ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ becomes comfortable in his charge’s obedience, certain in the knowledge that he isn’t about to do anything ‘foolish,’ Sans’ metaphorical leash is loosened.

More responsibility, more freedom.

Not _real_ freedom, by any definition of the word…but he’ll take it.

He is now _allowed_ to speak to other monsters, as necessary.

And through this, Sans discovers a talent he never knew he had.

“I’M HERE TO PICK UP THE—”

“The new recombinator, yeah, yeah,” Dr. Grey grumbles, Sans’ interruption obviously unwelcome. “Can I eat my lunch first? Do you need it _right now?”_

Sans doesn’t.

But he finds himself frowning as the cat monster plops a splotchy, greasy paper bag on the table, right next to all his very sensitive and intricate and probably _expensive_ equipment.

“IT’S…AGAINST PROCEDURE TO—…”

Sans stops talking the moment he sees the effect his words are having.

It really is a form of culture shock for him, realizing how… _expressive_ people can be, apparently without even realizing it.

Raised under ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ ~~’s thumb~~ , Sans had grown used to that flat, unreadable face: a blank wall with rarely manifested eye-lights, only growing malleable to _purposefully_ express an emotion; for _emphasis._

Other monsters, it seemed, didn’t have that same kind of control.

Sans sees the subtle scrunch of Dr. Grey’s nose, the _slight_ downward shift of his brow, a tightness to his mouth, and without the man ever having to say it, Sans _knows._

Dr. Grey is irritated with him.

So when he says, “Look, if I share, will you promise not to _snitch_ on me?” and holds something out to him with his unusually long arms, Sans decides it’s probably a good gesture on his part to take it.

Even if it doesn’t _look_ particularly appetizing…

………

It tastes _much_ better than it looks.

Dr. Grey chuckles, whiskers twitching in amusement, and Sans remembers belatedly that _he_ probably makes a lot of easily read expressions too—he’ll have to watch that…

As soon as he’s done with _this_ , this…

“Jeez, you like burgers that much?”

This _burger._

“I’VE NEVER HAD ONE,” Sans says without thinking, just _barely_ able to tack on, “THIS GOOD.”

Dr. Grey doesn’t look like he caught the pause.

“Yeah, they’re pretty good,” he agrees. “That Grillby kid does ‘em right. …Should probably rethink his business model, though… Y’know, if he’s ever gonna make any _real_ G.”

Sans eats lunch with Dr. Grey, making small talk until he can bring the recombinator to ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ and complete his tasks for the day.

(And if he thinks about burgers for longer than is strictly casual, he says nothing about it to anyone.)

-

Sans goes on, honing his skills of observation, making as nice as he can with the surly and scarred personnel of the outer labs.

The monster with a round, bald head and even rounder, penetrating eyes clearly doesn’t believe Sans when he claims to be an intern… but noticeably lets it lie when he mentions ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ by name.

It’s clear he doesn’t want to get involved with the _Royal Scientist’s_ personal business.

A large bird with a big, jagged beak pauses in the middle of a lively discussion about quantum entanglement to ask…how old he is, again?

Sans makes a guess, somewhere between his chronological and physical ages, and they flush brightly. He knows they’re thinking they made a faux pas—to get such a sarcastic, _obviously_ wrong answer, Sans must get that question all the _time_ …

He doesn’t correct them, much preferring to go back to talking about particles than himself.

Even the custodian, he develops a civil rapport with, and she stops him once in the hall as he’s lugging equipment back and forth, as he always does.

“Hey,” she says, her eye intense as her clamshell head clapped softly around her words, “if you _ever_ need _anything……”_

“THANK YOU,” Sans says, shifting the weight in his arms. “BUT I’VE GOT THEM.”

(He knows that’s not what she meant.)

(He can tell from her tone that even if she doesn’t _know,_ she Knows.)

(Sans, a kid _far_ too smart for whatever age he actually was, running around the Royal Labs, personal assistant to someone that was well known within and without these walls as a very powerful, very intelligent, very _cruel_ monster…)

(But how can he trust her? Trust _anyone?_ The possibility of betrayal is omnipresent, ulterior motives lie in everything—☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ taught him that.)

(What was the _price_ of this offer? The _consequences?_ He has no way of knowing.)

(And even if he was wrong, even if she offered of the goodness in her heart and _nothing_ else…)

(☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ had eyes everywhere, and custodians were…replaceable.)

(Sans did her a favor, pretending not to understand.)

(He thinks.)

-

Sans doesn’t consciously realize it, not for awhile.

But there’s a plan forming, somewhere in the back of his mind, nebulous as steam but slowly, _slowly_ building pressure.

Sans is…earning ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s trust.

Gradually, of course, but…

If he had more of it…

With more leeway…

He could…

What— escape? Expose his…crimes?

Do something…more _satisfying?_

(Sans _is_ stronger now, _so_ much stronger than the last time he tested that for real against his guardian.)

(Maybe this time…?)

Sans isn’t sure.

And before he can properly figure it out, a wrench is thrown squarely into his gears.

A very, _very_ big wrench.

When Sans comes back to ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s lab and finds himself staring at his own replacement.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ doesn’t _say_ that’s what it is, but there’s a new hole in his left hand to match the one in the right, and what else could the tiny little soulling in a familiar tank of cyan magic _be?_

Especially when all ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ says on the matter is that he’s going to let _this_ one grow naturally—since the accelerator had such…unfortunate side-effects _last_ time.

Sans is…being replaced.

-

He watches the soulling as it grows, his eye-lights drawn to the bright white glow every time he passes its tank.

Such a _small_ thing to kill his budding hope so _brutally…_

This is his replacement.

Sans surely only has until it’s finished, not _nearly_ enough time to build all the trust he needs from ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ in order to do… _any_ of the things he was planning to do.

With the release of the working product, the prototype is no longer needed, and Sans has no faith in his value to ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ as a _lab assistant_ to assume he’ll be kept around.

As soon as it’s ready…

As soon as it proves viable, better than its predecessor…

………

Sans is left wholly unattended with it a total of four times.

His eye-lights linger on all the wires and tubes hooked up to the tank, all of the monitoring and regulatory equipment that he knows well how to use.

It would be…smart…to solve this problem now.

It would be easy.

…It _should_ be.

And yet…

Sans only looks at it, bobbing slowly, almost sleepily in its pool of cyan.

If it weren’t almost certainly his impending death, he might even call it ‘cute.’

-

Sans is told to stop what he’s doing, come over here, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ could use an extra pair of hands for this.

This, Sans sees when he turns to look, is the soulling glowing brighter, shivering with potential…

Ready to form its physical body.

Sans goes over to assist.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎, rolling up his sleeves, explains that he’s going to remove it from the gestation tank and Sans’ job will be to monitor its vitals and call out anything alarming.

It should go smoothly, he adds, with something that sounds an awful lot like a sneer in his voice.

 _This_ specimen is far more…robust.

‘Robust’ is not the first word that comes to Sans’ mind as he watches the soulling—the _soul_ —disappear, magic coalescing around it into a body of tiny, delicate bones.

A skeleton, of course, just like ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎.

Just like Sans.

“SHOWING…MODERATE SIGNS OF DISTRESS,” Sans reports, trying to remain focused on his task.

Expected, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ assures him, draining the tank and removing the…

The infant.

…which is now wiggling and rattling and _wailing_ at the top of lungs it didn’t have as ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ examined it thoroughly.

Its sobs are _huge_ for such a little body, Sans can’t help but think.

The real-time data on the computer shows no complications, though, none that Sans can see.

Aside from a slight tremor in its soul resonance—well within the range of normal for a monster experiencing unpleasant emotion—the little skeleton is in perfect health.

A steady soul, well-formed limbs in the correct proportion, 10 HP _just to start…_

It’s perfect.

Sans’ superior.

His replacement.

_Only a matter of time._

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ moves suddenly, carrying the infant over to Sans’ old cot in the corner of the lab.

Sans watches him set it down and then come back over to the computer, bumping him aside to get a print-out of the data.

Sans…stands there, feeling tense and awkward as ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ clips the papers to a board and begins scribbling down notes.

The infant is screaming its skull off behind him.

“☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎…”

He huffs audibly, a nonverbal demand to speak.

“WHAT…NOW?”

This is, one would assume from ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s reaction, an incredibly stupid question to ask.

Nothing, he says, waving his hand dismissively. Sans should go about his business, he’s not needed anymore—☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s busy, he doesn’t have time to dictate every _second_ of his day for him.

But suddenly, Sans isn’t…all that concerned, about himself; if ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ meant ‘not needed’ _now_ or just…‘not needed.’

“WHAT ABOUT… IT’S……IT’S CRYING…”

Infants do that, yes—it’ll stop eventually.

“………BUT. WHAT IF…”

It’s fine, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ says, manifesting eye-lights just to roll them condescendingly. Sans saw the data himself: there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s healthy and normal, it doesn’t need anything.

However annoying the noise may be, it’ll cry itself out sooner or later—nothing to _bother_ with.

And so saying, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ decisively turns his back on Sans, immersing himself fully in his work.

Conversation over.

Sans…takes a step back.

Turns.

…

The infant is _very_ loud and from its flailing, _very_ upset.

Maybe…

Maybe he should check.

Just to make _sure_ nothing was wrong.

Sans looks at the screen again, reading over the data.

~~Stalling.~~

Full HP, a masculine soul resonance, a potential affinity for purple magic…

The computer even recorded its font, the name that goes along with the shape of the letters screaming out of the infant’s mouth.

Papyrus.

……

Sans leaves the computer.

And approaches the cot.

It’s still crying…

 _He’s_ still crying.

And…

It’s making Sans…feel something.

A…a kinship?

 _…I WAS THERE,_ he realizes, with dawning horror. _THAT WAS ME._

Older, physically.

Bigger, and smarter, and able to hold his own skull up under his own power, maybe, but…

No less helpless, when it came right down to it.

 _Exactly_ as scared and alone, wishing, _somewhere_ , deep down in the heart of him that…

………

That someone would _help._

………

The babybones…

 _Papyrus_ …is just like him.

Made of the same dust and magic, dragged into the same terrible situation.

…They’re family, of a sort.

Brothers.

………

Sans reaches down and picks Papyrus up.

The ensuing silence is so sudden and complete that for a moment, Sans thinks he’s gone deaf.

Papyrus is _looking_ at him, with _big_ startled eye-sockets still wet with tears; quiet at first, but letting out uncertain little whines and whimpers as he tries to figure out if what’s just happened is good or not.

Sans doesn’t know the ‘correct’ way to hold a babybones.

He’s probably doing it _all_ wrong as he shifts Papyrus…his brother…closer to his chest, trying to crook his arm the way he’s seen mothers do it from the pictures in his books—a clumsy imitation at best.

Papyrus doesn’t seem to mind his inexperience.

He fusses a _little_ but remains quiet, his tiny, useless phalanges fisting ineffectively at Sans’ lab coat, his skull nuzzling into his big brother’s chest.

Easy to please, little Papyrus was—it seemed like being picked up was all he’d wanted.

Sans exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He sits, on the cot, careful not to lose his grip and drop the babybones like an idiot.

He looks across the lab, at ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎—but if the Royal Scientist ever looked up from his work to see what his failed experiment was doing to his replacement, he’s already deemed it unimportant and turned back to More Important Matters.

Sans sits there with Papyrus for a long time.

His skull is empty, in the moment, but later—much later—Sans will realize how…big…this moment is.

The moment he gained a brother.

The moment he had something…his, something that ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ didn’t _tell_ him to want or to take on.

The moment that Sans gained, however small…

A family.

-

~~Another Big Moment is fast approaching.~~

~~Not that any of them know it yet.~~

-

Sans takes on the chore of looking after Papyrus in the days, weeks, months that follow.

With, he assumes, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s tacit approval, as his lab work and fetching assignments diminish _considerably_ , almost overnight.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ once said he didn’t have time to raise a child from scratch—Sans couldn’t have known then that it would become _his_ job.

But it’s…good…to have a purpose.

~~_Some_ certainty that he won’t be discarded just yet.~~

Sans doesn’t intend to complain.

As far as babies go, Papyrus is an easy one…he thinks.

He doesn’t have much to _compare_ to, of course, but as long as Sans keeps him fed and holds him on a regular basis, there’s rarely _any_ crying and that’s not _too_ hard to keep up with.

Papyrus _is_ a bit of a whiner, though…

He whines when he’s hungry, and when he’s tired, when Sans goes to leave the room without him—even for just a moment!—and he whines when he’s bored, which Sans can only assume because nothing _else_ could be wrong for him to whine about.

It’s all forgivable, though, because Papyrus is his baby brother and it’s not _his_ fault he’s too small and new to do anything by himself.

…and, maybe, also a _little_ bit because Papyrus raises _hell_ when ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ tries to handle him—staring up at his flat, skeletal face for only a second before bursting into frightened tears and _refusing_ to settle until Sans has him again.

There’s a very nasty, spiteful sort of joy for Sans in that; one that he _savors_ every time it happens and ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ looks so put out and _sour._

Papyrus knows what he’s about.

Sans respects that.

So, he sits with Papyrus in his lap and reads his textbooks aloud, even though his audience mostly just makes weird noises and excitedly smacks any pages that have colorful pictures.

He shares his paper and tries to find lots of markers for Papyrus as soon as he learns how to hold them, and doesn’t get ~~that~~ mad when streaks of ink end up all over his…everything.

He points at things and says what they’re called and only laughs a little bit when Papyrus can never quite say the word himself, just syllables like ‘bah’ and ‘nyeh’ and ‘ssssss.’

He’s not laughing when one day, that ‘ssssss’ turns into a “ssssssans!!!” complete with a big smile and reaching grabby hands and _Sans…_

Sans isn’t _crying_ that day, either.

His _brother’s_ the babybones, not him.

Obviously.

Throughout all this,☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ insists on regular health checks and examinations for his second creation, just as he’d done with Sans.

The only difference is that Papyrus passes them all with flying colors: his HP, his magic production, his budding motor skills, all on track for a babybones his age.

He is, by all accounts, the perfect specimen.

Undoubtedly what ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ had hoped his _first_ attempt would be.

Sans is…making his peace with that, he thinks.

He’s not strong enough—he never was and probably never will be—but at least for the moment, he still has a purpose.

Taking care of Papyrus.

Whatever ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ intends to do about him when Papyrus no longer needs to be taken care of, whether he’ll go back to being an assistant-slash-errand-boy, or…

………

Well.

It’s not as if Sans will have a choice in the matter anyway.

He’s making his peace with it.

And then…

Papyrus is crawling underfoot, exploring the lab as he sometimes does. He’s still entirely too small to get at anything dangerous, so as long as Sans has him in eyeshot he figures it’s fine.

He and ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ both watch as the babybones gets up off his knees, toddling a few steps before stumbling and starting to fall.

Sans catches him, of course, setting him back down on the floor and angling him towards the area with the least sharp edges and hard corners, but ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s attention is caught.

He asks if Papyrus is walking now, sounding intrigued.

“SORT OF,” Sans allows. “HIS BALANCE ISN’T RIGHT YET, BUT HE’S GETTING THERE.”

It’s about time, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ opines.

He’ll be ready for some experiments soon.

………

Sans goes _cold._

Through the odd ringing sound that seems to have taken up residence in his skull, he keeps his tone even and casual as he probes deeper.

“EXPERIMENTS? ISN’T HE ALREADY PERFECT?”

Perfect?

 _Stars,_ no.

Better than _Sans_ , certainly—healthier, stronger, _lots_ of potential—but far from _perfect._

His magic production is only slightly above average for a monster his age, and projections of his intelligence and mental aptitude are actually slightly _below_ average.

“MAYBE HE DOESN’T TEST WELL,” Sans quips, like the conversation wouldn’t be _boiling_ his blood, if he had any.

Maybe, ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ allows, but there’s plenty of room for improvement.

_Enhancement._

And so many more things to _try_ with a specimen so much sturdier than Sans was!

No need to scrap the really _interesting_ ideas just because they might be a little too taxing for his _fragile_ creation, a nice, wide margin for error to work within, finally.

Sans makes as noncommittal a noise as he knows how to make.

But on the inside, he’s _burning._

The coldest fire he’s ever felt, like shards of ice in his chest making his ribs sting and creak with the pressure as they spread and spread and _spread._

He knows this feeling.

_Hate._

His hate for ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎, never quite gone, never quite faded, but maybe forgotten for a time; less immediate.

It’s back at the forefront of Sans’ mind now, with a _horrible_ vengeance, fueled by…

Fear? Concern?

~~…Love?~~

Sans thought he’d given up on the idea of defying ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎.

It had been…pointless, hopeless, _impossible_ , why _bother?_

It still was, _all_ of those things, but _now…_

Now, the stakes were so high, they were _dizzying,_ sending Sans reeling to even contemplate them.

Papyrus.

_Papyrus._

Small, helpless, trusting Papyrus…

~~Poisoned with chemicals, zapped with incompatible magic, trained to his literal breaking point, strapped down to a table and—~~

_NO._

Papyrus is _his_ brother.

 _His_ family.

_His._

And he is _not_ for ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ to ruin.

Sans won’t _allow_ it.

Not even if it _kills_ him.

-

For the next few weeks, Sans sleeps poorly—if at all.

He keeps his eye-sockets shut, his eye-lights extinguished, but all of his attention is fixed firmly on the door night after night, as if ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ would burst in at any moment and try to steal Papyrus out from under him, like an ambush.

It’s ridiculous.

Sans knows that if… _when_ …☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ comes for Papyrus, there’ll be no such subtlety and pretense.

He’ll simply _take_ , the way he always has before, with a show of force and unimpeachable authority, and Sans won’t be able to stop it.

Sans knows this in his bones, but his body remains tense and wired regardless.

Papyrus, perfectly oblivious to the danger he’s in, still seems to sense that something’s wrong.

He frowns at Sans sometimes, his little hands reaching up to pat at his brother’s face.

“why sad???”

“NOT SAD,” Sans says every time, redirecting him to his coloring.

He’s not.

He’s tired. He’s scared. He’s _angry._

 _WHY PAPYRUS?_ he wonders constantly. _WHY **NOW?** HE’S A FUCKING **BABYBONES** , HE DOESN’T DESERVE…!_

But Sans learned a long time ago that reason and empathy meant nothing to their guardian.

He’s the Royal Scientist: he can do whatever experiments he wants, on anything or any _one_ he wants.

And because he can, he will.

The thought makes Sans sick, sick and _mad_ and it keeps his every sense on high alert as he looks for the right opportunity.

 _Any_ opportunity, no matter the odds against him.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ doesn’t get to win this time.

He doesn’t get Sans’ brother.

-

Of all the scenarios Sans expected, of everything he ran through in his head looking for an answer—how he could stop the inevitable, how he could keep his brother safe, how he could maybe even live through it himself—there was one thing he failed to account for.

Sheer dumb _luck._

An alarm goes off one day, one Sans has never seen go off before: a big red light on the wall flashing intermittently, a long slow klaxon blaring in time.

It doesn’t sound particularly urgent, but then ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s pager, phone, and intercom all go off at the same time too, and Sans knows it has to be something _really_ serious.

Unfortunately, Papyrus doesn’t like loud noises.

All of the discordant, blaring sounds at once makes him throw his arms over his skull and start to cry, loudly, only adding to the cacophony.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ snaps at Sans to _shut him up_ while he tries to attend to all of the notifications happening at once, and Sans scoops his baby brother up without hesitation—bouncing and hushing and explaining that it was fine, he was okay, everything was okay…

Perhaps not the whole truth.

Sans can hear the rushed, angry conversation bouncing back and forth behind him, or at least the important bits.

“…the CORE…ngerous fluctuation…ls are too _high_ , we can’t _stabilize…”_

Papyrus is quiet by the time ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ curses once, loudly, whirling and flying around the lab gathering tools and shutting off everything still trying to get his attention.

Sans jumps a little to hear his name barked, instructed to come along as the CORE needs urgent repair and ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ needs his extra set of hands.

On autopilot, Sans is already lowering Papyrus back to the floor before it occurs to him.

An opportunity.

A _loophole._

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ said to keep Papyrus quiet.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ said to come with.

He _never_ said to put Papyrus down in between.

Papyrus stares at Sans, his little skull tilting in confusion, and…

And Sans picks him back up, whispering, “QUIET NOW,” before following ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ out the door.

It’s risky.

There’s no guarantee, of _anything,_ but to Sans’ estimations, this is perhaps _the_ best shot he’s ever going to get.

Papyrus has never been out of the lab before—the precious, _successful_ experiment, kept close under observation, and under lock and key.

But ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ doesn’t notice him at all, clinging silently to Sans’ coat, and for _him_ not to _notice_ …

It means that ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is distracted.

 _Really_ distracted.

Sans’ odds of success are rising by the second.

Through a long elevator ride and several hallways, with an amount of ID scanners that make ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ cuss and grumble, Sans stays sharp, waiting for his chance.

Feeling like a mousetrap ready to spring.

The CORE, when they reach it, truly is impressive: a massive geothermal energy hub, siphoning power from the earth itself to provide light and warmth to all monsterkind.

Innovation.

Genius.

A technological _marvel._

…but the choice to have the main control center accessible only by _catwalks_ , miles above the glowing, flowing _lava_ that powered it seemed an unnecessarily dramatic touch.

Unsafe.

 _Anything_ could happen here, really.

Just a few rails and good balance standing between someone and an…

Unfortunate accident.

…

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ is fixing the CORE.

He makes periodic demands for tools, hold this, take that, back _up_ , get away…

Sans complies.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s back is to Sans, as it often is—less a show of trust than one of arrogance, certain in the knowledge that his first creation knows better than to do anything…disobedient.

_Stupid._

……

Standing here, holding his innocent baby brother in his arms, Sans has never felt _stupider._

When ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ sighs and closes the control panel, starting to stand, it’s like the world slips into slow motion.

_NOW._

Sans shifts Papyrus onto his hip, keeping hold of him with just one arm. He’s a toddler now, and it’s not as easy to hold him this way as it used to be, but Sans is strong enough to do it.

This probably isn’t what ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ wanted him to be stronger for, but that’s too bad.

 _Sans_ gets to decide what to do with his strength now.

What he’s going to use it to protect.

By the time ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ starts to turn, it’s already too late.

Sans is bumping his heel against ☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎’s, shoving _hard_ at the middle of his spine, with all the force he _has_ …

And it’s enough.

Sneaky and underhanded and opportunistic, but it’s enough.

☝︎✌︎💧︎❄︎☜︎☼︎ goes over the rail.

Every emotion that flits across his normally inscrutable face is a thing of beauty to Sans.

The shock, the disbelief, the anger, the _fear_ …

Oh, the _fear_ is something that Sans etches into his memory on the spot, _never_ wanting to forget.

Sans watches him fall, watches him hit…

He never thought it would be so easy.

So quick and painless.

And now…

He’s free.

-

Well…

Maybe not.

Sans questions the efficacy of ‘safety features’ that throw the entire CORE into lockdown only _after_ someone’s fallen into the damn thing. It _hardly_ seems useful.

And yet, useful or not, alarms are blaring again and not a single door will open, no matter how many times he scans his ID badge, and he…

They…are stuck.

 _At_ the scene of the crime, where Sans _murdered_ the _Royal Scientist_ in cold blood, and he doesn’t want to _be_ here when someone comes _asking_ about it.

And someone’s coming, that he’s sure of—with all the flashing lights and howling alarms, _someone_ is coming to investigate—but Sans can’t pry the panel off the wall to try and hardwire the door while he’s holding his brother, but Papyrus hates all this noise and he’s crying and he’ll cry louder if Sans puts him down, which he _doesn’t_ want to do here _anyway_ where one wrong toddle could mean the Royal Scientist’s fate, and he’s so _stupid,_ he should’ve taken his ID badge before shoving him over, _those_ credentials might’ve bypassed the lockdown, but he _didn’t_ and they’re _trapped_ and he, he…!

He can _see_ it, Sans can _see_ the next hallway, through the window in the door, he can _see_ it but he can’t get there, he needs to get there, he _needs_ to get there…!

And then, between one blink and the next…

He is.

The sudden cool-down of the air around him is what puts Sans’ panic attack on hold, making him pause and look around in surprise.

There’s no lava far below his feet. He’s not standing on a catwalk.

He’s in the next hallway.

The door never opened, but he’s _here_ just the same, like he’d simply…found another route.

Like he took a shortcut.

………

The next door has a window, too.

Sans wonders if he can do that again.

The answer is ‘yes.’

It’s ‘yes,’ and ‘yes,’ and ‘yes,’ and ‘yes,’ shortcutting through door after door and getting farther and farther away from the CORE, closer and closer to freedom— _real_ freedom!

They’re farther than Sans has even been on his own, _one_ last door between them and the publicly accessible area of the CORE facility, so, so, _so_ close…

…when Sans’ strength gives out.

He tries to shortcut again, _one_ last time, but the attempt just leaves him dizzy, trying to call on magic that just isn’t there.

His knees wobble and he reaches for his badge, hoping against hope that maybe…

Access denied.

The Royal Scientist was just as sly as Sans had expected him to be—of _course_ his ID wouldn’t work this far out.

Feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him, Sans…sits.

He leans against the wall and slides all the way down until he’s just…sitting there, on the floor, trying to breathe.

Papyrus slips out of his grip and starts to wander around the little hallway. The klaxons are far away now, only just audible in the distance, and apparently that’s good enough for him to feel alright to explore.

Good for him.

Sans scrubs his phalanges over his face, taking a long, deep inhale and holding it.

“OKAY,” he says to himself, exhaling. “OKAY, OKAY, OKAY… THINK.”

He has some time now.

People are going to be going to the CORE first. It’s probably going to take them awhile to figure out what happened at all, probably longer if there’s no evidence that it wasn’t just an accident.

If _anyone_ is going to be looking for him, they _won’t_ be looking here first thing.

He has some time.

Sans’ ID badge is useless against this door.

As he sees it, he only has two options: try to open up the panel again, or wait until he has enough magic to use his new trick one more time.

The latter is risky.

Any time wasted is time that someone could find them here, in a restricted area in the middle of a lockdown, after a very important monster died under mysterious circumstances, and that’s—to put it mildly—not a good look.

But the former isn’t without its drawbacks, either.

Sans doesn’t have any tools, all left behind back at the CORE— _STUPID, STUPID, STUPID…_ —so he’d be prying it open and fiddling around in it all with his bare hands, almost _certainly_ causing himself some kind of injury, and with damaged or broken claws it’s going to be a lot harder to look after—………

Sans’ soul thrums oddly in his chest.

Where is Papyrus?

He can’t see him.

It’s not a large hallway, and there’s nowhere in it to hide, Sans should _definitely_ be able to see Papyrus in it, but he can’t.

Papyrus is gone.

Papyrus is _gone_ and _how_ could Sans have lost him?! _Literally_ how, because it makes no sense, and Sans is working himself right back up into a panic by the time he sees it.

The tiny little hand reaching for him through the door.

 _Through_ the door.

That’s the part that takes Sans an inordinate amount of time to process, because there’s no opening, no crack under or at the side of the door, no _possible_ way for anything to go through it.

But there, somehow…is Papyrus’ hand, waving around blindly the same way it did when he lost a marker under the cot that he couldn’t quite reach.

Sans doesn’t understand it, but he grabs the hand.

It curls around his claws and tugs, and Sans still doesn’t understand but he moves towards the door anyway.

Sans isn’t sure he’ll _ever_ understand how he just…slid right through, as if the door didn’t even _exist_ , but maybe he isn’t the only one who just learned a new trick.

Either way, Papyrus certainly seems happy to see him on the other side—tiny purple lights manifesting in his eye-sockets as he smiles up at his big brother.

“quiet now,” he announces, proudly.

He’s right.

The sirens can’t even be heard _faintly_ now, here, in this room: an empty reception area, preemptively evacuated when the first alarms went off, no doubt.

They’re alone here.

They’re…

They’re alone.

 _Free,_ for real.

“…HEH…HEHEHEH…HAHAHA!”

Sans is laughing as he scoops Papyrus up again, the _rush_ giving him an unexpected boost of strength.

He might be crying a little bit too as he gets to his feet and starts to run, as fast as he can.

Sans has no plan.

He has nowhere to go, no one to help him, _nothing_ to fall back on, but he just keeps running and doesn’t look back.

What he does have…it isn’t much.

It’s…just the two of them, but…

It’s still Sans’ family.

He has his family, his _brother_ , and they’re free now.

They can be safe.

Whatever he has to do to be strong enough to keep this, to protect it, he’ll do it.

He’ll make it work.

 _They’ll_ make it work.

“YOU AND ME, PAPYRUS,” he laughs breathlessly. “SKELETON BROTHERS AGAINST THE WORLD!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first of hopefully lots of post-DL content! They (probably) won't all be this long, but Sans' backstory demanded exploration, and here it is!
> 
> . ~~Some of his paranoia, control issues, and overprotective tendencies make a little more sense now, I think, seeing where they came from.~~
> 
> A pretty rough start, I know, but there's more to come in this series--including a look at Sans getting some well-deserved peace (and therapy), beyond the happy ending of DL.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around for the rest of the vignettes in this series!


	2. Set-In Stains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence and death, young skeletons in bad situations, injuries, light mention/usage of drugs and alcohol, non-explicit references to sex

Papyrus’ earliest memories are…blurry.

From how people usually talk about it, from things he’s read on the Undernet, it seems like that’s pretty typical.

The first couple years of life don’t really _stick_ , not in any way that matters, and if they do, they’re hardly _ever_ clear.

Just…bits and pieces.

Papyrus _has_ bits and pieces.

Papyrus has…crawling around on cold tile…scribbling formless shapes with neon highlighters…sometimes bad noises, but mostly beeps and hums that were easy to fall asleep to…

Nightmares, too.

A flat, white face in the darkness, staring at him. 

Grating sounds and jumbled symbols that he didn’t understand; _couldn’t_ understand.

Hands—like his, but _huge_ , with _holes_ in the middle—reaching, trying to _get_ him, to do something _bad_ …

Many years later, Papyrus questions his own psyche; that it was able to come up with such a _creepy_ ominous figure to haunt his dreams _that_ young.

But then, apparently… _lots_ of kids have boogeymen around that age, or so he’s heard.

It’s normal.

And a moot point, really, because the boogeyman never got him.

Because Sans was there.

That’s one of the stronger memories that Papyrus has from that far back: bright eye-lights in the darkness, claws snatching him up and away, _loud_ words but in simple, rounded letters that made them feel so much safer, somehow…

_Sans._

His big brother.

Papyrus was safe when Sans was there, and Sans was _always_ there.

That’s what he remembers the most.

The rest…

…probably isn’t _that_ important.

-

Papyrus doesn’t really like their house.

It’s tiny and creaky and the lights turn off _a lot_ , and one of the walls has a hole that’s _wet_ and smells _gross_ , even _after_ Sans made the pipe stop dripping.

Sans always says they’ll go somewhere else soon, but it’s been awhile so Papyrus guesses that ‘soon’ is longer than he thought it was…

It’s not all bad, though, because Sans comes up with lots of games for them to play to pass the time.

Papyrus is _really_ good at the Quiet Game—he knows _all_ the loud spots of the floor and how to step around them and he even remembers to duck under the windows, so nobody outside would _ever_ know he was there!

He can stay quiet for _hours_ until Sans comes home and taps the wall four times (so he knows the game is over).

“DID ANYONE SEE YOU?” he asks every time, checking the locks on the door and the boards on the window, but Papyrus’ answer is always the same.

“nope!”

It makes Sans smile and pat him on the head, telling him, “GOOD JOB,” before handing over whatever he found for dinner.

Papyrus is the _best_ at the Quiet Game.

…he’s probably the _worst_ at the G Game, though, because Sans _always_ wins _that_ one.

He used to be better at it, but towards the end, it was just never any fun to see his brother holding that shiny gold coin out to him, asking to play.

No matter _where_ he hid it—in pockets, in bags, in wallets, in wallets _in_ bags—Sans would always find it somehow, and Papyrus could _only_ win if he felt him take it.

It was _impossible_ and he wasn’t sad when Sans said he was good enough and that they didn’t need to play it anymore.

He _is_ a little sad that they never got to play Fortress.

That one had sounded like fun, when Sans explained it, but then it just never happened…

He asks about it one day, a long time later, and his brother looks surprised.

“YOU REMEMBER THAT?” Sans makes a weird face and shakes his head. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, WE WON’T HAVE TO PLAY THAT GAME.”

“how come???”

“BECAUSE.” 

Papyrus frowns, because that’s a bad answer, and Sans should know that. 

“……BECAUSE THE…PEOPLE…I THOUGHT WERE GOING TO COME PLAY WITH US AREN’T COMING.”

“why not?”

“THEY FORGOT THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO.”

 _“all_ of them?”

Sans makes a noise, kind of like a laugh, but one that sounds like it hurts.

“APPARENTLY.”

“oh…”

Maybe Papyrus sounds disappointed, because Sans reaches out and grabs his shoulder.

“HEY, THAT GAME’S STUPID ANYWAY. IT’S JUST HIDE AND SEEK WITH EXTRA STEPS. WE CAN PLAY HIDE AND SEEK RIGHT _NOW_ , IF YOU WANT.”

Of course he wants to!

The game of hide and seek they play after is fun, and Sans is probably right that it’s better than Fortress.

Papyrus hardly even remembers all the rules—something about…moving the furniture? 

That sounds _hard_ and not that fun at all.

He’d rather play _fun_ games with his brother than wait for the people in black armor to come over and make them _move_ stuff…

So he doesn’t think about Fortress again.

-

Papyrus shakes his brother awake one night.

Sans grumbles, like he always does when Papyrus doesn’t let him sleep, but it’s _important_ and he can’t wait until _morning._

 _“WHAT?”_ Sans asks, annoyed. “WHAT DO YOU N—………”

Sans stops talking, his mouth hanging open in a funny way. His _eye-lights_ even go away for a second, so Papyrus knows he _really_ surprised him, and that just makes him smile wider.

The little glowing bone floating between his palms isn’t much—small, and lopsided, and a little flickery—but it’s his _best_ one yet!

Sans _has_ to see it.

“I…PAPYRUS, THAT’S…” His brother’s eye-sockets are _huge,_ and it kinda makes him want to laugh. “WHEN DID YOU LEARN THAT?”

“just now,” Papyrus proudly tells him.

It took _days_ to make one this good; one that looked mostly how he wanted it to and didn’t disappear when he thought about anything else.

Of course he’s proud of it!

Sans shakes his head.

“NO,” he says, “I… _HOW?”_

Which is a silly question.

“i saw when _you_ did it.”

The bone Sans had made was a lot cooler, _way_ bigger and _bright_ blue, and it made that mad sphinx lady stop chasing them like they were playing _freeze-tag!_

Papyrus doesn’t know if he can make one like _that_ , but he thinks this one is still pretty cool.

Sans seems to think so, too.

“………HEH. HEHEHEH, STARS, YOU’RE QUICK. A WHOLE _BULLET_ , THAT’S…” He sits up, leaning closer to inspect it. “THE BOOKS SAID YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THAT FOR ANOTHER _YEAR._ THAT’S INCREDIBLE, PAPYRUS.”

Papyrus _beams_ , bouncing in place a little to get the happy out.

There’s…maybe a little too much happy, actually.

The bone…the ‘bullet’ glows brighter between his hands, sparking and fizzling in a weird way, and Papyrus doesn’t know what it means, but it doesn’t look safe and definitely throws off his concentration.

He can’t help but make a sad noise when he lets it go and it _pops_ , disappearing into thin air and leaving the room dark again.

Dark, except for Sans’ eye-lights, looking down at him.

“AH, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT,” he says, laughing a little. “THAT WAS GREAT. YOU CAN TRY AGAIN LATER, I’LL HELP YOU.”

Papyrus perks back up.

“really? you’ll show me how???”

“SURE. WHEN IT ISN’T…” Sans rustles around in his stuff, looking at his pocket-watch. “…TWO IN THE _MORNING,_ WHY THE HELL ARE YOU AWAKE?!”

“‘cause i had to sh—mffhmgfhh…!”

Sans’ hand is on his face, covering his mouth and shoving him to lay down.

There’s only one thing Papyrus can do.

“OW! DID YOU _BITE_ ME?! YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE GREMLIN!”

 _“you’re_ a gremlin!”

Papyrus doesn’t know what a ‘gremlin’ is, but that doesn’t seem important.

“OOH, YOU HAVE _NO_ IDEA,” Sans grumbles, “YOU HAVE NO _IDEA_ HOW LUCKY YOU ARE THAT I PUT UP WITH YOU… GO TO _BED!”_

He _says_ that, but Papyrus just snickers as he lays down.

Sans only _sounds_ mad, he _knows_ he isn’t really.

 _And_ he knows that Sans doesn’t break promises—so tomorrow, he’ll get to learn how to make bones!

Going to bed will just make that come sooner, and he can’t _wait._

-

…Maybe he _could’ve_ waited.

The next morning, first thing, Sans wakes him up and gives him…

“a _book?”_

“DON’T WHINE,” Sans tuts at him. “YOU CAN’T JUST DIVE IN WITH THIS SORT OF MAGIC, YOU HAVE TO LEARN THE BASICS FIRST.”

 _“yeah,_ but……”

Making bones and doing magic, it was…it was supposed to be…fun, _cool!_

Not _school,_ like numbers and letters…

Papyrus pouts.

“NICE TRY, I’M NOT THAT EASY. AT LEAST _LOOK_ AT IT TODAY, OKAY?”

It’s then that Papyrus realizes Sans is putting on a sweater with a hood, and his soul sinks for real.

“you’re going out?”

“I HAVE TO,” Sans says.

“no!” Papyrus protests, making himself jump a little at how _loud_ he was, but… “you can’t! i…you said……i-i can’t read by myself!”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO.” Sans cracks the book open, showing him the inside. “IT’S FOR KIDS, THERE’S LOTS OF PICTURES. YOU CAN LOOK AT THOSE AND I’LL READ IT FOR YOU WHEN I GET HOME.”

He passes the book back into Papyrus’ arms, starting to turn away, and…

Papyrus doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t have the words, at his age, to express why it felt so _important_ that Sans stayed. 

Why seeing him go, when they were _supposed_ to do something together, when what he _thought_ was supposed to happen _wasn’t_ happening made everything feel so suddenly bad and wrong.

All Papyrus knows is that his chest hurts and he feels _sad_ and his eye-sockets are starting to well up, and…

And then, he’s crying.

“WH—OH, PAPYRUS, WHAT…”

Whatever Sans was going to say, he stops saying it and kneels down instead, reaching out for Papyrus.

He doesn’t—can’t—do anything but keep crying, even as his brother tries to make him look at him, and reasons and shushes and consoles.

Papyrus just _cries,_ full of emotion and with no other way to let it out, and before he knows it, he finds himself squished up against Sans in a tight grip.

The pressure…the _hug_ …helps.

A little.

 _“d-don’t,”_ he whines, still gasping and blubbering. “i, i…i don’t, you……… _please…”_

Sans squeezes him harder, but it’s weird.

It sounds like _he’s_ the one who’s hurting when he says, “I’M SORRY, I…I CAN’T, PAPYRUS, I _HAVE_ TO GO.”

 _“why????”_ Papyrus demands.

“BECAUSE, I…I HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF US.” Gently, Sans probes, “YOU WANT TO EAT LATER, DON’T YOU?”

Papyrus sniffles.

Of course he does.

“I HAVE TO GO OUT THEN,” Sans explains, correctly reading his silence. “I CAN’T BRING HOME FOOD IF I DON’T GO.”

That makes sense.

But…

Papyrus’ hands grip the book he’s still holding, like it was his brother he was trying to hold onto instead.

Sans pulls back enough to see it and tries to smile at him.

“IT’S OKAY. WE’LL DO THAT LATER. I PROMISE.”

………

Sans _always_ kept promises.

Papyrus looks at him for a long time before scrubbing at his eye-sockets and staring down at the creaky wood floor.

“…okay,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

He can’t say that he still wants Sans to stay and read the book for him, because he doesn’t know how to say that he thinks he should be able to have both—dinner _and_ his brother—and he doesn’t want Sans to get mad at him for not understanding why he can’t.

~~He wouldn’t get mad: Sans is never mad, not _at_ him, but when you’re a babybones, the things you worry about don’t always make sense.~~

~~And you rarely know how to explain them, even if they do.~~

Sans smiles, relieved, and hugs him again, telling him to stay safe and be careful while he’s gone, that he’ll be as quick as he can and bring back something _really_ good, to make it up to him.

Papyrus nods and agrees and…

And then, he’s alone.

And that’s…okay.

Papyrus does look at the book while Sans is gone.

There’s lots of pictures, like Sans said, and some words that he can kind of sound out a little bit on his own… but lots that he can’t; that he needs his brother to read for him.

He tries his best anyway, while he waits, but by the time Sans gets back he’s _more_ than ready for help.

Papyrus is _so_ happy to see Sans again that he doesn’t even really notice how tired and scuffed up his brother looks—an easy thing to miss hidden behind an armful of treats and a big, bright ~~lying~~ smile.

Sans keeps his promise, though, and diligently reads him the _whole_ book, picking at popato chisps while letting Papyrus have as many crab apples and donuts as he wanted; answering _all_ of his questions and more, even when it started to get late.

By bedtime, he’s all but forgotten the episode of the morning, and he goes to bed excited to learn more about magic.

Even if it _is_ like school.

-

Papyrus does learn more about magic.

It comes in _lots_ of colors, not just white and blue, and every color does something different.

The blue he saw Sans use that one time makes you stay still or it hurts, and orange does the opposite. Green makes you feel better if you’re hurt and sometimes protects you, dark blue makes you heavy, and you have to dodge yellow no matter _what_ because it hits your soul instead of your body and you can’t block it…

Red is weird and Papyrus isn’t sure he gets what it does.

“IT’S A PASSIVE MAGIC,” Sans tries to explain. “IT DOESN’T _DO_ ANYTHING, TO THE OTHER PERSON, IT… RED MAGIC MAKES YOU TOUGHER. HARDER TO K…TO BEAT.”

Papyrus probably still looks like he doesn’t get it, because Sans huffs.

“IT DOESN’T MATTER, YOU SHOULDN’T EVER BE USING RED MAGIC ANYWAY, LET’S—”

“wait, why?”

“IT’S DANGEROUS.” Sans reaches over him to turn the page of the book, pointing at a cartoon picture of a monster.

“she looks…drippy.”

“SHE IS. MONSTER BODIES DON’T ALWAYS REACT TO IT WELL IN HIGH QUANTITIES. A FEW STUDIES HAVE BEEN DONE BUT NOTHING PARTICULARLY CONCLUSIVE WAS FOUND. …EXCEPT FOR A CORRELATION OF STABILITY WITH REPORTED LEVELS OF ANGER OR PASSION, AND A FEW OUTLIERS WITH TRAUMATIC EXPERIENCES, ESPECIALLY IN THE FORMATIVE YEARS. IT’S _INTERESTING_ , BUT SUBJECTS’ SELF-REPORTING SKEWS THE ACCURACY, AND STATISTICALLY, IT’S NOT…”

Papyrus doesn’t understand half of what his brother is talking about and promptly tunes the other half out.

He got the part that was important—red is dangerous, don’t use it—but he still lets Sans keep talking because Sans likes to use big words and talk about math stuff and doesn’t expect him to actually listen or remember.

He’s not even really interested in red magic anyway, since it doesn’t _sound_ very cool.

What Papyrus is _really_ interested in is _purple_ magic, the kind that Sans says _he_ uses the most.

…Even if he doesn’t quite get it either.

“it makes strings?”

“NO,” says Sans. Then, “…YES. SORT OF. NOT REALLY.”

“………”

Papyrus doesn’t even have to say anything for Sans to realize what a bad answer that was.

“…I’LL SHOW YOU.”

But first, apparently, Papyrus has to learn about Encounters.

A tradition, Sans calls it, turn-based and binding, a one-on-one, “OR TWO… _SOMETIMES_ THREE,” environment to facilitate interaction between monsters.

All Papyrus knows about ‘tradition’ is that it’s the reason why there’s puzzles everywhere when they go out, and why he’s supposed to wear clothes with stripes on them because he’s a kid.

That stuff doesn’t prepare him at all for what it’s like when everything around him goes black, black and black and _more_ black as far as he can see, and only four weird orange rectangles in front of him to break up the darkness.

Even _Sans_ looks darker, somehow, standing across from him…but his purple eye-lights are still there, big and bright and calm, and Papyrus knows he’s safe.

“what……what do i do?” he asks.

“ANYTHING YOU WANT,” Sans replies. “I STARTED THE ENCOUNTER, SO THAT MEANS IT’S YOUR TURN. YOU CAN PICK SOMETHING TO DO AND THEN IT’LL BE MY TURN.”

That doesn’t sound so hard…

Papyrus looks at the rectangles.

He worries, for half a second, that he might have trouble reading the words on them if there’s one he doesn’t recognize, but when he looks he finds that he understands it all perfectly.

Somehow.

He’s never even _seen_ the word ‘MERCY’ before, but here, looking at it before him, he knows exactly what it means.

Like he’s not just reading the word with his _head_ , but…his _soul_ , too…?

Papyrus knows what ‘MERCY’ means, and what ‘ITEM’ means, and what ‘ACT’ means, and what—………

He frowns.

Maybe he should’ve figured it out before.

Maybe he should’ve realized sooner, learning about the different types of magic, what they do and how they can hurt and how you can use them to beat somebody, but…

It’s not until just now, seeing it in front of him in big orange letters, that it really sinks in.

“sans…is… is this for FIGHTing?”

Papyrus doesn’t want to FIGHT anybody.

That sounds…mean, and…and _scary!_

If that’s what Encounters are for, then—

“NOT! NECESSARILY,” Sans blurts out, like he’s trying to talk fast. “IT… I, YES, SOME…MONSTERS USE IT FOR FIGHTING, BUT IT’S…IT’S NOT ONLY THAT!”

“……but it says—”

“IT SAYS A LOT OF THINGS! MOST OF THEM ARE GOOD, AREN’T THEY?”

Well…

Yeah?

That’s true.

MERCY is new to Papyrus, but _that’s_ good…and…and he can’t really think of how an ITEM could be bad…

“WHY DON’T YOU TRY ‘ACT’?” Sans says, encouraging. “YOU CAN PICK WHATEVER YOU WANT A-AND THEN I’LL SHOW YOU HOW PURPLE MAGIC WORKS. OKAY???”

Papyrus considers it.

He _does_ want to see his brother’s magic…

………

Papyrus ACTs.

*** Check**

*** Hug**

*** Play**

He doesn’t really feel like playing right now, and he can hug his brother anytime, so…

He Checks Sans instead.

*** SANS ATK 20 DEF 40**

*** Doesn’t want to scare you, but thinks this is really important.**

As soon as he processes what he’s seen, Papyrus feels…a shift, hard to pin down and even harder to put into words, but he just Knows.

It’s Sans’ turn now.

Sans, who looks just a little bit sweaty…

“ARE…ARE YOU OKAY?” he asks, awkwardly. “DO… SHOULD I……DO YOU WANT TO KEEP GOING?”

………

Sans wants to show him this.

He thinks it’s _important_ to show him this.

But…he won’t, if Papyrus doesn’t like it…

If he gets scared.

Somehow, knowing that makes him feel…

…not very scared at all.

“i’m okay,” he says. “i wanna see.”

Which is true, but also…

He trusts his big brother.

And if Sans thinks this is important, then it probably is.

He wants to learn about it.

Sans looks relieved at his answer, exhaling loudly and smiling at him.

“OKAY,” he tells Papyrus. “I’M GOING TO TURN YOU PURPLE NOW. IT WON’T HURT, BUT I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE, SO YOU CAN USE IT LATER.”

“you think i can???”

“I KNOW YOU CAN. I JUST HAVE TO SHOW YOU HOW.”

Sans’ answer was so sure, so _quick._

He _really_ believes in Papyrus, doesn’t he?

That…

Makes him a little nervous, actually…

But…but he’ll try his best anyway! 

“okay,” he says out loud. “i’m ready!”

-

Sans is right about Papyrus being able to learn purple magic—all it takes is a few turns of being purple himself in that first Encounter, having to hop and shimmy along set lines to dodge his brother’s (very slow, very small, very _green)_ bone bullets before he Learns the feeling.

He even manages to turn _Sans_ purple for a turn, and it makes him so excited that he doesn’t even _care_ that he can’t do fewer than six lines, or that he had to let go of it right after because he started to feel dizzy.

Sans ends the Encounter right after anyway, and won’t restart it even when Papyrus eats a Monster Candy and feels totally fine again.

Sans is _such_ a wet blanket…

(Like ‘gremlin,’ Papyrus doesn’t actually know what it means to be a ‘wet blanket,’ but he _thinks_ it means ‘no fun,’ and that’s _definitely_ what Sans is.)

He promises they’ll do more Encounters soon, at least, and train _every_ day until he gets so good at it he won’t even _need_ Monster Candy after.

Every day sounds like a lot at first, but in the end, it’s just another kind of game for Sans to play with him.

The fact that he’s learning stuff can’t even ruin _that._

For a long time, Sans helps him try out lots of different colors of magic, shows him how to make bullets—more than one!—and arrange them in special ways, and even how to start Encounters on his own.

He’s getting better at it all the time, and he knows because Sans keeps saying so, praising the power of his bones and how ‘sophisticated’ his patterns are for his age and lots of other really nice things that make him feel happy and proud.

Papyrus _loves_ training.

…He still doesn’t know what it’s _for_ , or why Sans thinks it’s important for him to know all this stuff, but he’s doing well and Sans is proud of him and that’s all he really cares about.

-

There’s other cool stuff about training and learning magic too, stuff that Papyrus never would’ve thought of before.

Apparently, now that he’s training, that means he gets to go _out!_

Papyrus has been out _before,_ of course, sometimes…but never for very long.

Usually only when he was _really_ little, or when he ~~threw a tantrum~~ got really upset and wouldn’t let go of Sans so his brother _had_ to take him with, and those times, he was either too young to remember or Sans held onto his hand and made him stay _so_ close, he couldn’t really see anything anyway.

But now!

Now Sans brings him on purpose! And he still has to stay close, but he doesn’t have to hold Sans’ hand and he can explore and look at whatever stuff he wants to!

Which is good, because the Dump is probably the best place ever to do that.

The first time Sans takes Papyrus there, he doesn’t really like it: it’s dark and smells weird, like the hole in their wall, and everywhere he steps is _wet._

“WE’RE IN WATERFALL,” Sans explains when Papyrus says so. “THE CAPITAL IS NEAR HOTLAND. IT’S DRIER THERE.”

Papyrus knows the Capital is where _they_ live and he guesses it makes sense that somewhere else _would_ be really different…

So even though Waterfall is the exact opposite of bright and warm and packed full of monsters, he decides to give it a chance.

And it’s pretty cool!

The blue tone of what dim light can be found is actually a lot easier to look at than the sharp reds and yellows of the Capital (or…Hotland?).

The sound all the running water makes is really nice, too, and the splashes his boots make when he walks through it are especially good. 

The piles of weird junk are ever-changing and everywhere, and Papyrus can look through them and take _anything_ he wants.

“…AS LONG AS IT FITS IN THE BAG,” Sans adds.

The bag his brother brings to the Dump is big and tube-shaped and can fit a lot of stuff, though, so that doesn’t really rule out anything Papyrus wants to take home.

The squishy duck that looks like it used to be really fuzzy?

“LOOKS MOLDY. SURE, I CAN WASH IT.”

The whole stack of empty notebooks just barely getting dripped on?

“PAGES MIGHT DRY A LITTLE FUNNY, BUT IF YOU DON’T CARE…”

A shiny, curvy bottle?

“……IT’S EMPTY. WHY DO YOU…? OH WHATEVER, IT’S NOT BROKEN, WHY NOT.”

The Dump is officially the _best._

-

Eventually, many visits later, Papyrus gets bored of collecting junk for himself.

He asks Sans what _he’s_ looking for.

“G, MOSTLY,” Sans says. “OR THINGS THAT I CAN SELL FOR G.”

“like what?”

“MMN, GADGETS, WEAPONS, TOOLS… ANYTHING THAT’S NOT BROKEN TOO BADLY…” 

Sans pauses in his rummaging to look at Papyrus, maybe realizing that didn’t really clear things up.

“METAL,” he says, trying again. “IF IT’S METAL OR LOOKS COMPLICATED, THAT’S WHAT I WANT.”

Which makes _way_ more sense, and Papyrus doesn’t know why Sans didn’t just say that in the first place.

Now that he knows what he’s supposed to find, Papyrus ends up bringing back _lots_ of stuff that Sans says is exactly what he needed and that’ll help get lots of G.

Papyrus is proud of that—being able to help—but he’s proudest of the stuff that his brother _doesn’t_ sell.

A little blade with a long handle that Sans says probably wouldn’t go for much, but could be useful in a pinch, he _supposes…_

(Papyrus saw him using it sometimes, when Sans thought he was asleep, making shapes out of driftwood while he watched outside the window, looking for people who weren’t there. He always made mean faces at the shapes when he was done and threw them away, but Papyrus always found them and kept them, _all_ of them, just in case Sans wanted them back someday.)

An instant camera in _really_ good shape, with a whole _bunch_ of totally dry packs of film to go with it.

(They spend whole afternoons trading it back and forth sometimes, taking pictures of each other and whatever else they thought could be interesting to have a picture of, just because. It somehow takes _years_ to run out of film packs, and by then they have digital cameras to replace it, but he knows that Sans collected all the old photos—every one—and put them all in an album for safekeeping.)

A little book with weird, smiling faces on it that Papyrus doesn’t really get, but it makes Sans laugh and laugh and _laugh_ when he reads it, so it must be good.

(…That one, Papyrus realizes as an adult, was probably either the _greatest_ thing he ever did or the _worst_ mistake he ever made: presenting Sans with his very first joke book.)

(………)

(Jury’s still out.)

It’s all a bunch of little stuff, nothing big or important, but somehow it means more, and it makes Papyrus happy because…

Well.

Because he has a really cool brother!

And he’s starting to realize that maybe…not _everybody_ has a brother this cool.

-

There are other monsters sometimes, at the Dump.

Seeing them, running into them…it’s not like it is at the Capital, where there’s so many monsters that everybody’s squished against everybody, but nobody really looks at anybody, or bothers with you unless you make someone mad.

It’s different in Waterfall.

The monsters here _stop_ when they see Papyrus. 

They _look_ at him, _hard_ , and without knowing why, it makes his soul shiver unpleasantly in his chest; makes him want to run and hide until they go _away._

He never has to, though.

Because Sans is always there.

Sans is always there to stand in front of Papyrus and make them look at him instead, and if they come closer or try to talk to them, Sans is the one who looks right at their eyes and says the words that make them go away.

It’s like a whole different language that Sans uses with them, one that Papyrus just doesn’t understand—a way of talking where all the words are normal and don’t seem bad at all, but they’re…heavy, somehow…like there’s something more there that he can’t see.

_Underneath._

It’s…

It’s _scary,_ sometimes, but Sans never seems to get scared.

Sans _never_ messes up and _always_ says everything right and nothing bad ever happens to them in Waterfall because he’s _so_ good at people, in a way that Papyrus doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ be.

He doesn’t know that language, and as long as Sans is around, he’ll never have to learn it.

All of…that…is probably why he says what he says when Sans catches him looking at some kids one day, playing together in the Dump.

They’re bigger than Papyrus, even far away, but he can tell that they’re kids like him because they’re wearing stripes, too.

Their ‘playing’ looks weird, the whole group running around and hitting and shoving each other, _laughing_ when one of them falls in the water. 

He’s seen other kids sometimes, doing stuff like this before, but it seems… _mean,_ and like it would _hurt_ , and Papyrus doesn’t get how it’s supposed to be fun at all.

He’s watching them, trying to figure it out, when he feels his brother come up beside him and look at what he’s looking at.

Sans is quiet for awhile.

Papyrus wonders if maybe even _Sans_ is confused—which never happens—until…

“YOU SHOULD…PROBABLY HAVE SOME FRIENDS, AT YOUR AGE…” Sans says slowly, reluctantly. “I… PAPYRUS, DO YOU……DO YOU WANT ME TO FIND SOME FRIENDS FOR YOU?”

“no!”

“NOT _THEM,”_ Sans starts to say, “THEY’RE TOO OLD. ONES THE SAME AGE AS Y—”

But, “no!!!” Papyrus says again, because he doesn’t _want_ friends.

Not friends like _that,_ who are mean and rough and…and _scary!_

~~He doesn’t want things to _change…_~~

_Sans_ doesn’t act like that, when they play.

Sans doesn’t hit him, or yell at him, or laugh at him when he messes up or says something dumb, Sans…

_Sans…_

Sans talks loud but he gets quieter when Papyrus needs him to, without even having to ask. 

Sans always knows what he means, even if he says it a weird way.

Sans _never_ makes him feel stupid even though Sans knows a lot of things that Papyrus doesn’t, and…

And Sans shares his food when he’s hungry, and lets him sleep closer to him when he has bad dreams, and puts on a blanket-cape to be a bad guy and chase Papyrus around so he can be the hero and…

Sans is a _good brother._

That’s _way_ better than friends.

It’s a lot to try and explain, so Papyrus doesn’t, latching onto Sans instead and holding tight, hoping his brother will understand.

Like he always does.

It only takes a second for Sans to hug him back, patting lightly.

“OKAY,” he says. “I WON’T. JUST…LET ME KNOW IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND LATER… ALRIGHT?”

“okay,” Papyrus mumbles back.

But he doesn’t think he’ll change his mind.

Even Sans, who talks to people _so_ good and _always_ knows what they want, doesn’t seem like he has any ‘friends.’

If Sans doesn’t have any…

How important can they be, anyway?

-

Nothing changes.

For a long time, everything is the same as always and things are good: they play games, they explore, they have fun…

There’s nothing Papyrus _would_ change.

………

Except.

“STOP.”

Papyrus drops the covers he was trying to pull over Sans and scoots back as his brother shoves them off again.

“you shivered,” he tries to explain, but Sans just shakes his head.

“TOO HOT,” he mutters.

“…oh.”

Sans’ skull does look pretty purple, and sweaty, so… maybe that’s true? 

But… he shivered like he was cold, so Papyrus thought…

He’s not sure.

He’s _never_ sure what’s what when Sans is sick like this.

And he gets sick like this _a lot._

When his brother gets so tired he can’t even stand up, and he’s hot and cold at the same time, and he talks a lot but doesn’t make any sense, Papyrus _never_ knows what to do except…

Sit there.

And watch.

…

Papyrus doesn’t get why this happens to Sans so much. 

It never happened to _him_ and…they were brothers! They were both skeletons, and Sans was bigger and older, but Papyrus never got sick like this and he doesn’t understand why it’s different.

“YOU WERE BUILT TOUGHER THAN ME,” Sans said, when he asked once. “YOU’RE STRONGER, I HAVE MORE MAGIC… JUST HOW WE WERE MADE…”

He was sick, when he said that, so Papyrus doesn’t know how true it is. 

It might have just been another one of those things Sans says that doesn’t make any sense, because he doesn’t think he _could_ be stronger than his big brother, but he was too scared to ask again later when Sans was feeling better…

Papyrus jumps when suddenly, Sans jerks upright and disappears.

He freezes, eye-sockets wide, too startled to even register what had happened until Sans is already back, coughing and wiping at his face.

There’s magic residue around his mouth still…and his nasal cavity…and his _eye-sockets…_

Yuck!

Throwing up seems so _gross_ , Papyrus _hates_ this, he hates it _so_ much!

“sans?”

But Sans doesn’t act like he heard him.

He just…falls back onto the pile of dirty blankets that was their bed, sprawling out and staring at the ceiling with eye-lights so dim and fuzzy, Papyrus wasn’t even sure he was still awake.

Until he started talking.

“…IT’S…FUNNY,” he says, his voice airy and faint. “THERE’S…THERE’S FREED’M IN CAPTIVITY…SORT OF. …WHEN. WHEN THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO…‘BOUT ANYTHING… NOTHING IS Y’R……… HE’S GONE, HE’S _GONE,_ I’M FREE, BUT NOW, _EVERYTHING’S_ ON ME… I…I HAVE TO……”

Papyrus doesn’t understand.

Sans isn’t making _sense_ again and there’s so many pauses and slurs in his words and it’s…it’s _scaring_ him.

Papyrus reaches out, grabbing his brother’s arm and trying again.

“sans???”

Sans blinks and turns, looking at Papyrus.

It feels like forever, even though it’s only a few seconds, but Sans’ eye-lights focus a little and he’s…

He’s Sans again.

“…OH. PAPYRUS. I’M SORRY.” He shifts, like maybe he’s trying to get up. “DID…DID YOU NEED SOMETHING…?”

Somehow…Papyrus knows he shouldn’t mention that he’s a little hungry, or that Sans is taking up their whole bed.

He doesn’t want Sans to get up right now.

So he says, “no,” instead.

And he feels better when Sans just grunts and flops back down.

Now he can ask what he wanted to ask before.

“are…do you………can i…help?”

Sans laughs.

Papyrus frowns at the hoarse chuckle, like what he said was funny, because he doesn’t think he said anything funny.

“DON’T…DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, PAPYRUS,” Sans says, loosely flapping his hand. “I BOUNCE BACK FAST, YOU KNOW I DO.”

………

Yeah…Papyrus guesses that’s true.

He’s never seen Sans sick for longer than two days, and he’s always right back to normal after, like it never even happened.

But…

“don’t…sh-shouldn’t there……isn’t somebody…supposed to take care of you?”

Papyrus isn’t sure, but…the more they go out together, the more he sees other monsters, other families…

They don’t look like _their_ family.

“don’t we…shouldn’t we have………parents??? like…like a mom, o-or a d—”

“NO.”

Papyrus shuts up so fast his teeth click.

Sans’ eye-lights are intense, fever-bright but more solid than they’ve looked in hours.

“WE DON’T HAVE THOSE,” he says sharply. “WE DON’T NEED THEM. I CAN TAKE CARE OF US.”

“i…okay.”

Papyrus doesn’t know _why_ that question made Sans so serious, but he thinks maybe…maybe them not having parents is…one of those things he won’t ask about again…

Seeing Papyrus duck his skull and look at the floor seems to soften his brother, though, because the next thing Sans does is reach out and pat him on the head.

“DON’T WORRY,” he says again. “IT’S FINE. I’VE GOT A PLAN, I’VE BEEN SAVING G… WE’LL BE FINE SOON, I’LL BE FINE. I PROMISE.”

It’s not the first time Sans has promised that.

But it is the first time that Papyrus thought that it…maybe wasn’t all the way true.

Still, Sans is himself again in the morning, fine again after sleeping all night, so Papyrus…

He…tries not to think about it.

-

Sans was telling the truth when he said he had a plan.

Papyrus finds this out when one day, his brother tells them they’re moving and to grab up anything he wants to keep from the house because they won’t be coming back.

“where are we gonna live now?”

“IN SNOWDIN,” says Sans, which Papyrus hasn’t heard of before. But apparently, “IT’S COLD THERE, BUT IT SHOULD BE QUIET.”

Papyrus likes quiet places, and he doesn’t think he minds being cold, so he gathers all his best and most important stuff and takes his brother’s hand to go to the new house.

It’s _way_ better than the old one.

Stepping inside for the first time, Papyrus can hardly believe _this_ could be _their_ place: it’s _huge_ , and it has _carpets_ and furniture without weird smells and walls without holes and—

 _“YOUR_ ROOM IS UPSTAIRS, IF YOU WANT TO SEE IT,” Sans adds with a smug little smile.

Papyrus is too caught up in the excitement of having his own room, having an _upstairs_ , that he doesn’t even want to make Sans stop being so smug.

He wanders around the house for hours with Sans at his heels, exploring everything, going everywhere, finding just the right spots to put all his stuff…

It’s not until he’s trying out his bed—his _own_ bed, with a _mattress_ and everything!—that it occurs to him to ask.

“did… can we…afford this…?”

Not that Papyrus wants to _leave_ , not after seeing so much of the cool new place, but…

He knows that they…don’t have a lot of G…and stuff costs money, unless you find it in the Dump, but he’s pretty sure Sans didn’t dig a whole _house_ out of the Dump.

Sans frowns at the question.

“YOU’RE TOO YOUNG TO WORRY ABOUT MONEY,” he says. “DON’T— IT’S ALL BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT OURS.”

Papyrus makes a face at him, wondering if Sans is just saying that so he won’t worry.

Sans sighs.

“I’M GOING TO HAVE TO START TRYING HARDER TO GET ANYTHING PAST YOU, AREN’T I…?” 

That must be one of those questions Papyrus isn’t supposed to answer, because Sans keeps talking.

“I MEAN IT. I’VE BEEN PINCHING PENNIES A LONG TIME FOR THIS. I GOT AN ADVANCE ON MY FIRST MONTH’S PAY AND A STIPEND TO COVER THE RELOCATION TO MY DUTY-ZONE, SO WE’VE EVEN GOT PLENTY LEFT OVER FOR NECESSITIES UNTIL THE NEXT ONE.”

There’s a lot in that sentence that Papyrus doesn’t really get.

He decides to focus on the smallest word first.

“pay?”

Sans blinks at his question, and then he smiles: big and broad and _proud,_ like Papyrus hasn’t seen him do in a really long time.

“I GOT A JOB,” he says. “I’M GOING TO BE A SENTRY IN THE ROYAL GUARD.”

-

Sans’ new job turns out to mean a lot of things.

Some of those things are good, like the new house…

“THEY WANT ME TO LIVE HERE BECAUSE IT’S CLOSE TO WHERE I’M SUPPOSED TO WORK.”

And the money…

“BEING PART OF THE GUARD IS HARD WORK AND A LOT OF MONSTERS DON’T WANT TO DO IT, SO THEY GIVE REALLY GOOD G TO THE PEOPLE WHO SIGN UP ANYWAY.”

Papyrus has his own room now, and so many other rooms with doors and locks that aren’t broken and pipes that don’t drip and he can have the lights on whenever he wants and not only when Sans is home to make sure it’s safe.

He gets brand new clothes, too—sweaters and jeans and three different _kinds_ of shoes—a new blanket and pillows, _plus_ fresh markers and notebooks that didn’t already have stuff written in them, _and_ extra food just sitting there in the kitchen _whenever_ he wanted it…

It’s more than Papyrus could’ve ever thought to ask for and he loves it all.

But…there’s some not so good parts about Sans’ new job, too.

“WE DON’T HAVE TO GO TO THE DUMP ANYMORE. IF YOU WANT SOMETHING, I CAN BUY IT NOW, AS LONG AS YOU CAN WAIT A LITTLE.”

Papyrus had never really thought of _that_ as the purpose of going to the Dump.

Finding stuff _was_ cool, especially when it was something they were out of or that he really wanted, but it wasn’t…

Papyrus just…liked going… ~~with his brother.~~

And now, that’s over.

Which is…

It’s…

………

Papyrus isn’t happy about it.

But it’s not the worst thing.

The _worst_ thing is when he finds Sans one morning, just a few days after the move, putting on a uniform.

“where’re you going?”

Sans jumps a little, whirling on him.

“DON’T SNEAK UP ON ME,” he snaps. “WHY ARE YOU AWAKE?”

Well…

Papyrus _had_ been hoping to talk his brother into making a (very, very) early breakfast for him, but…

“why are _you_ awake?”

Sans huffs, but lets Papyrus get away with it and answers his question first.

“BECAUSE I HAVE TO GO.”

Go?

“where?” Papyrus wonders, because if Sans doesn’t need to go to the Dump, or go looking for money and food anymore, then…

“TRAINING,” Sans replies. “FOR MY JOB.”

Papyrus is understandably confused.

“but……you’re good already??? you’re _really_ good, you…you don’t need training!”

His brother chuckles a little.

“NO, NOT MAGIC TRAINING,” he explains. “JUST… THEY WANT TO TEACH ME HOW TO DO MY JOB AND WHAT ALL THE RULES ARE. THEY HAVE TO KNOW HOW STRONG I AM AND IF I’M GOOD AT DOING WHAT THEY TELL ME TO DO BEFORE THEY’LL LET ME BE A SENTRY.”

Papyrus, having been told by now what sentries do, thinks it can’t be _that_ hard to sit somewhere and walk around sometimes to make sure nobody’s doing stuff they’re not supposed to.

Sans could do that in his sleep!

But maybe…

“it’s…it’s like, a test?”

“SORT OF,” Sans agrees. “THE ACTUAL TEST IS AT THE END. I HAVE TO GO TO ALL THE TRAININGS FIRST.”

“how many?”

“LOTS. EVERY DAY FOR AT LEAST A FEW MONTHS.”

_“months?!”_

That’s _forever!_

“IT’S OKAY, IT’S FINE, I KNEW WHAT I WAS GETTING INTO.” Sans is smiling, like it’s really not a big deal at all. “IT WON’T BE THAT DIFFERENT THAN BEFORE, FOR YOU. …EXCEPT NOW, IF YOU GET HUNGRY WHILE I’M GONE, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAIT FOR ME, YOU CAN JUST GRAB WHATEVER FROM THE KITCHEN.”

Papyrus hadn’t even been _thinking_ about food anymore.

“but…w…when are you gonna be home?”

“PROBABLY LATE,” Sans admits. “I DOUBT I’LL BE ABLE TO GET AWAY FOR LONG ENOUGH TO CHECK IN BEFORE DISMISSAL, SO……….YES, LATE.”

Papyrus doesn’t like that.

But he’s…he’s getting too old to…to just…cry about it when things aren’t…when he doesn’t…

So he doesn’t cry.

He can’t help it if he still looks sad, though.

Papyrus looks up when Sans half-kneels to be on his level, looking sympathetic.

“I KNOW,” he says. “IT’S DIFFERENT. I KNOW YOU HATE DIFFERENT, BUT THIS IS GOOD-DIFFERENT, IT IS. IT…IT MIGHT BE HARD, FOR A LITTLE WHILE, BUT…WE’LL GET THROUGH IT. WE ALWAYS DO, DON’T WE? SKELETON BROTHERS AGAINST THE WORLD?”

Papyrus nods.

He doesn’t like it…but Sans is usually right about stuff.

If…if his brother thinks these…changes…are gonna be good, they probably will be.

He just has to be strong.

Like Sans.

Papyrus nods again but more sure this time.

“okay. you…you’ll be careful?”

In that moment, Sans looks so pleased with him, so _proud_ of him that he knows without a doubt that he said the right thing.

“OF COURSE. AS LONG AS YOU’RE CAREFUL, TOO, HEHEHEH…”

Papyrus can do that.

He can do this.

-

Sans was right about at least one thing.

It _was_ hard.

With his brother gone _all_ day—no longer just three or four hours at a time—Papyrus really struggles to find ways to kill the time.

He can read by himself these days, and there’s lots of books around to practice with, but…it’s really not the same without Sans around to do the voices and it rarely holds his attention for very long.

Snacking and taking naps helps, and he holds to his brother’s important rules for doing that stuff when he’s not home (no microwave, no oven, check _all_ the locks on the doors and windows), but even those things only take so long.

They have a TV, but nothing’s really on ever, _especially_ not during the day, so there’s not much there to occupy him either.

Mostly, Papyrus draws and colors.

It’s always been something he liked doing, but with his fancy supplies and the good lights in his room, he _really_ gets into it.

He draws whatever he wants and experiments with _everything:_ colors, styles, pens and pencils and markers, _anything_ he can mess around with to see if it looks good or not.

He doesn’t have to worry about running out of paper to doodle on anymore, or using up his _only_ special cherry-scented marker—why _shouldn’t_ he try it all out?

“THIS IS REALLY GOOD,” Sans says one night when Papyrus shows him one of his notebooks.

“i traced that,” he admits, thinking of the picture book he copied it out of, but quickly points to the next page. _“that_ one, i did myself.”

“HEHEH, WELL, THAT ONE’S GOOD, TOO. YOU’RE CREATIVE, PAPYRUS. I’M GLAD YOU’RE HAVING FUN.”

Papyrus does have fun drawing.

He thinks that…maybe…he’d have _more_ fun drawing, if Sans were home to see him doing it…

But he doesn’t think he can (or should) say that to his brother just then, home _very_ late and slumped over on the couch looking really, really tired.

So he doesn’t.

“you really think it’s good?”

Sans snorts.

“BETTER THAN ANYTHING _I_ COULD DRAW. KEEP AT IT, YOU’VE GOT TALENT THERE.”

Papyrus intends to.

~~There’s not much else for him to do all day long, is there?~~

-

Papyrus keeps drawing—mostly whatever he sees, whatever he’s seen before, some things he’s never seen but heard about and gotten a picture in his head of it.

(He has no idea what the Surface looks like for real, but he thinks it’s probably very pretty if humans wanted to keep it all for themselves.)

(He wonders if he’ll ever get to see it for himself someday.)

Unfortunately, even that gets boring after awhile.

There’s only so much he can pull out of his imagination, only so much he can see in their house and on TV and outside their windows and try to recreate it on paper in interesting ways.

He needs…

He wants…

Something more.

…

It’s a little thing that breaks him.

Such a silly, tiny thing that makes him act without thinking; that makes him break all of the rules his brother’d had set for _years._

It’s snowing outside.

Rain, like in Waterfall, but slow and fluffy and white, trickling down from the ceiling and piling up on the ground.

It sparkles, even in the dim light of the Underground, and it’s…beautiful.

Papyrus wants to see it.

He wants to be out _in_ it.

But Sans isn’t home to take him outside and he _won’t_ be home for hours, not until their artificial light has already gone away for the night.

The snow won’t look as pretty by then.

And Sans probably won’t even _want_ to take him—he’s always so tired when he gets back from training with the Guard that he doesn’t want to do anything but sit with Papyrus and eat dinner and go to bed.

Wouldn’t it…

Wouldn’t it be better…for _both_ of them…if Papyrus just…went out right now? Really quick?

Just to look around a little, just to see some more of Snowdin…

It wouldn’t take long.

Papyrus is practically _six,_ it’s not like he’s some…babybones anymore, who needs his brother around to hold his hand for everything.

 _Especially_ something this small!

In hardly any time at all, Papyrus has talked himself into it.

Grabbing his coat, his favorite pen, and a brand new black notebook, Papyrus slips right through the front door and outside.

Into Snowdin, unaccompanied, for the very first time.

-

~~As an adult, Papyrus knows there’s no question about this one.~~

~~It’s _absolutely_ the worst mistake he’s ever made.~~

-

What…Happens…is mostly a blur, in the end.

Papyrus is…wandering around, just…looking at the trees and the rocks and the snow.

He doesn’t see her.

Not until she shouts at him, asking who he is and what he’s doing there.

Papyrus freezes as she storms up to him, her boots crunching in the snow as she gets closer and closer.

A porcupine monster, he realizes when she’s practically snout to nasal ridge with him, her quills all fluffed out like she’s mad.

She _looks_ mad.

And she looks a _lot_ bigger than him—older, too, maybe almost _Sans’_ age, except that she’s wearing stripes, which means she must be a kid like Papyrus is.

She yells at him, really _yells_ , especially when he doesn’t answer her right away because that’s ‘disrespectful,’ he should know better than to ignore his elders.

Papyrus can’t get an explanation out.

He _tries,_ but all that comes out are stutters and broken words that make her laugh at him and call him names.

She shoves him.

She says he’s a stupid kid and shouldn’t be here, in _her_ turf, and if he’s too dumb to even say sorry for it, she’s gonna teach him a lesson.

When she takes another step closer, intent written all over her face, Papyrus snaps out of whatever paralysis he was in.

And he runs.

It doesn’t do any good.

He doesn’t remember that monsters could use bullets outside of Encounters.

He doesn’t see the giant, razor-sharp quill bursting up out of the snow behind him, catching him right in the back.

He didn’t know that something could hurt _so_ much, _so_ deep that you couldn’t even scream.

Papyrus falls, paralyzed again from more than just fear this time—too panicked to move, too hurt to try—as he hears the girl coming closer.

She laughs at him again, says he shouldn’t have run.

And then the white snow around them disappears, turning to black.

An Encounter.

His soul fit to vibrate right out of his chest, Papyrus rolls onto his (stinging, tender, _aching)_ back to look at her.

He sees his options—she started it, it’s his turn, of course it is—and goes to try MERCY…

But he can’t.

Her name—Quinn—it’s not yellow, like his brother’s name always was.

He can’t spare her.

He tries to ACT, but…

*** Cry**

*** Cry**

*** Cry**

He doesn’t think that’ll do any good either.

Papyrus has no conscious memory at all of choosing to FIGHT.

All he remembers when it’s over is being scared, being hurt, wanting her to go _away_ and leave him alone…!

He lashes out, hitting her with _everything_ he can muster—his strongest bones, his most complicated patterns, _praying_ it’s enough for him to get away, and…

And suddenly, she’s…

She’s gone.

The Encounter’s over.

There’s only a searing pain in his spine and a pile of dust in the snow and…

**PAPYRUS LV 2, HP 10/25**

………

Papyrus cries.

He curls up on the ground and cries and cries and _cries,_ not even caring about the cold or his back or his torn coat or…or _anything_ else.

He cries until it gets dark and Sans comes to fish him out of the snow, with scared eye-lights and green magic already _pouring_ out of his claws to make Papyrus’ spine not hurt so bad.

Sans doesn’t say anything.

He takes Papyrus home and keeps healing him until the line in the middle of his back only just _barely_ throbs with every pulse of his soul. 

He makes dinner and stitches up his coat and watches TV with him and he doesn’t say…anything.

Even though…

He _knew_ what Papyrus did.

He knew Papyrus snuck out, and got hurt, and…

He saw the _dust._

He knew what Papyrus _did._

Why didn’t Sans _say_ something?!

It’s not until he’s brushing his teeth that night—like everything was normal and fine and nothing bad had happened at all—that Papyrus catches sight of himself in the mirror.

His face looks…

Different.

He stares at himself, pondering over his reflection for a long, long time before he can pick out why.

The look on his face…it’s one he’s seen before.

This _exact_ expression, cold and sharp and…and _haunted_ …

He’s seen it on Sans.

He’s seen it on Sans a _lot,_ almost every time he left their old house without Papyrus, he’d come back and be…

He’d look…

………

Papyrus finishes brushing his teeth with a horrible _pit_ where his stomach would be, and when Sans comes in to read him a bedtime story, he can’t stay quiet anymore.

“sans…have you……did you ever…?”

Sans takes a deep, deep breath and exhales it slowly.

His mouth looks tight.

“I’M…I’M SORRY,” he says. “I DIDN’T…I NEVER WANTED THIS FOR YOU.”

Papyrus doesn’t cry again when Sans explains—stiffly, hesitantly—about how their world is; about how other monsters act and what it’s…necessary, sometimes, to do to stay safe…to protect the things you care about, and yourself.

Kill or Be Killed.

Papyrus just sits there, listening as Sans apologizes for leaving him alone, for letting that happen to him so early, for not protecting him better…

Telling him that he did the right thing and it was okay, he was only protecting himself and there was nothing bad about that and Sans could _never_ be mad at him for it—he was _glad_ that Papyrus was okay and he would…be there…if he needed _anything._

Papyrus accepts the hug Sans gives him before leaving his room, even though it’s tight enough to make the crack in his spine hurt a little.

And when Sans is gone…

Papyrus cries enough for the _both_ of them.

He doesn’t sleep and spends the rest of the night trying to draw the girl from memory, his notebook still damp from snow and now speckled with tears.

He knows, down to his bones, that he can’t forget her.

No matter how much he’d like to.

-

Papyrus follows the rules to the letter again—no more exceptions.

Doors and windows locked religiously, be aware of your surroundings, _never_ leave the house alone.

He’s learned the hard way why these rules were rules to begin with, and it scares him to think of all the things that could’ve happened to him if he’d thoughtlessly broken them sooner, when he’d only gone along with them because Sans said it was Important.

So many ‘fun’ memories look so much different now, knowing what his brother was protecting them from.

The people who chased them in the Capital for stealing, the scavengers who tried to size them up in Waterfall, the ones who might’ve found them in their old, condemned, abandoned house to take their things or their G or their _lives_ and Papyrus _never knew._

It’s like a nightmare.

 _One_ horrible moment and everything Papyrus thought he knew came crashing down.

He didn’t know anything.

He _doesn’t_ know anything.

There’s only one thing that’s still true, from before he learned the reality of their world, and it’s that…

That Papyrus is safe when Sans is there.

…but Sans isn’t always there anymore, and that…really raises the stakes, doesn’t it?

………

Papyrus follows the rules.

Sans passes his test and is officially inducted into the Royal Guard as a sentry, assigned to the forest post, out by the Ruins.

He’s home earlier, now that he has a set patrol, and sometimes even comes by in the middle of the day to grab Papyrus and pull him out for a walk about the town on his lunch break.

Papyrus thinks, at first, that Sans is doing it to make him not be scared of Snowdin and its people, but Sans says differently.

“I WANT THEM TO SEE YOU WITH ME,” he says one day as they walk, monsters peering at them suspiciously through their windows and skirting around them wherever they went. “I’M ONLY A SENTRY NOW, BUT THAT STILL MEANS SOMETHING. I DON’T WANT YOU OUT ALONE YET, BUT I’M GOING TO MAKE A NAME FOR MYSELF HERE. YOU WON’T BE AS GOOD OF A TARGET IF EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU’RE WITH ME.”

Papyrus doesn’t know if that could ever work, but as always, Sans probably knows best.

He tries not to complain.

At least on the days they stop into the shop, the willowy rabbit lady behind the counter gives them a free Cinnamon Bunny ‘for the little one,’ and Papyrus isn’t _that_ little…but the Cinnamon Bunnies are too good to turn down.

(Her sister at the inn next door isn’t nearly so nice, but she does put out a bowl of lollipops whenever they go in there, so maybe she’s not so bad either.)

“THE BUNS ARE DECENT PEOPLE,” Sans says while Papyrus munches on a frosted, floppy ear. “SOFT ON KIDS. IF YOU’RE EVER IN TROUBLE AND I’M NOT AROUND, I THINK THEY’D HELP YOU.”

Maybe.

But Papyrus doesn’t think he’s brave enough to test that theory.

He’ll just…stay home.

And wait for Sans.

-

Sans keeps trying to train with him.

Every day, like clockwork, he asks about it—pushing, coaxing, suggesting—trying to drag him outside to practice his dodging and his bullets and patterns and Papyrus…does a lot of things he’s not proud of to wriggle out of it.

When his excuses stop working, he runs, he hides, he yells and flails and begs until Sans gives up and goes away, and he feels like a total babybones for doing it but…

Training isn’t the same as it used to be.

Not now that he knows…what it was _for._

Now that he’s…

………

It’s not something he wants to do anymore.

It makes him feel sick and bad and _wrong_ just _thinking_ about what he did to that girl— _quinn, her name was quinn, don’t forget_ —and he doesn’t want it to happen ever again.

He doesn’t want to get _better_ at it.

He doesn’t want to have to k—…

He doesn’t want to have to do what he did again, but _on purpose_ next time.

The prospect alone makes his chest feel tight and his soul starts to tremble and then he’s fighting back tears and he doesn’t _want_ to feel that way, he doesn’t _want_ to do those things, but Sans keeps pushing it and he never lets it go.

“YOU HAVE TO LEARN SOMETIME,” he keeps saying, every time that he’s actually home, but Papyrus doesn’t understand why.

Why does he have to do that?

Why does he have to _be_ that?

Why…

Why can’t _Sans_ just do it, since he’s so strong and good at it? Why does he have to make Papyrus do it too and make him feel so…so stressed out and scared and _horrible_ all the time?

Why can’t he just be Papyrus’ _brother_ again?!

All those feelings come to a head eventually.

Papyrus breaks down, harder than he has since he was a babybones, crying in the corner of his room where Sans had tracked him down.

He wasn’t taking any excuses today and Papyrus watches through tears as Sans marches toward him, looking angry.

“YOU HAVE TO TRAIN,” he says. “YOU HAVE TO GET STRONGER!”

“no!” Papyrus yells back. “please, i don’t…! i don’t wanna! no, no no, don’t make me, no!”

Sans’ face just hardens and he reaches for him, ready to drag him kicking and screaming.

Papyrus flinches, shutting his sockets tight, _knowing_ he’s not going to get a choice this time…

Except.

_Except._

Sans never grabs him.

There’s a thump on the carpet instead, and Papyrus opens his eye-sockets to see Sans on his knees.

Looking _horrified._

Papyrus has never seen his brother with an expression like that before.

He doesn’t know what it’s for; what it _means._

When Sans reaches out again and pulls him into a _crushing_ hug, he wiggles because he doesn’t know what _that_ means either, but his brother just shushes him.

“IT…IT’S OKAY, PAPYRUS,” Sans says, his voice cracking around the words. “IT’S… YOU DON’T… HAVE TO TRAIN TODAY. OR… OR EVER. I’M _SORRY,_ I… YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO… _ANYTHING_ YOU DON’T WANT TO DO. I’LL…I’LL TAKE CARE OF EVERYTHING, F-FROM NOW ON.”

And the two words that sealed it as absolute truth:

“I PROMISE.”

That’s…

It’s…exactly what Papyrus wanted to hear.

Freedom, from an awful responsibility that Papyrus never wanted.

He doesn’t know why hearing Sans say it makes him feel a _different_ kind of bad feeling somewhere in his chest.

~~Like he just made a really big mistake…~~

But.

Papyrus is…just a kid.

He’s just a kid and he’s scared and upset and Sans promised to fix it, so he…

He lets Sans make the promise without a word of protest.

And he hugs his brother back.

-

Sans comes to him the next day with a collar.

It’s _soaked_ in Sans’ magic, dripping with vibes so unpleasant that Papyrus can practically hear his brother’s voice in it from across the room, hissing, ‘WATCH YOUR STEP.’

“I’M WORKING ON MY REPUTATION STILL,” Sans says, fiddling with the leather. “I STILL HAVE…I’M STILL GUNNING FOR A FEW PROMOTIONS, I…I NEED TO START SPREADING A LITTLE G AROUND, MORE, BUT I’M…PEOPLE ARE STARTING TO KNOW ME, AROUND HERE. THIS…THIS WILL MEAN SOMETHING, SOON.”

Papyrus takes the collar in his hands, just looking at it.

“BY THE TIME I… WHEN I GET WHERE I NEED TO BE…IF MONSTERS DON’T RESPECT ME, THEY’LL FEAR ME, AND THEY’LL LEAVE YOU ALONE. IF THEY KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR THEM.”

Papyrus doesn’t want to think about that.

“how long?” he asks instead.

Sans doesn’t need to ask what he means.

“GIVE ME A YEAR. I THINK I CAN MAKE OFFICER BY THEN, AND IT’S ONLY UP FROM THERE.”

Papyrus has no idea how Sans can be so confident, so _certain_ of his future when all Papyrus has felt is…

Lost.

But Sans knows what he’s doing, he guesses.

Papyrus puts the collar on.

-

A year later (and a few months after, when he finally works up the courage to try it), Papyrus leaves the house by himself.

He gets a few looks, but not one monster takes more than a few steps toward him before seeing the shiny gold bone-tag on his collar, or sensing the warning painted on it in protective magic.

Papyrus goes all the way to the shop and back with nothing worse happening to him than a pat on the head from the Bun lady.

So.

It looks like whatever Sans did worked.

-

Things loosen up a little after that.

Get a little easier.

Papyrus doesn’t really see the bad parts of their world so much anymore, under Sans’ protection, and Sans doesn’t really talk about the things he does as the First Lieutenant of the Royal Guard to keep his reputation untouchable.

 _“CAPTAIN_ OF THE ROYAL GUARD, SOON,” Sans says eventually, and Papyrus frowns.

“is…did alphys…?”

He thinks he remembers Sans saying something about an ambush in Waterfall, his Captain getting caught up in it…

“FINE,” Sans assures him, though. “SHE PULLED THROUGH WITH JUST A NEW SCAR, YOU CAN BARELY EVEN _SEE_ IT. SHE GOT A WEEK OFF AND THE EMPRESS IS BUMPING HER UP TO GENERAL, SO I’LL BE TAKING HER PLACE.”

“oh. cool.”

The higher Sans goes up the totem pole in the Guard, the more free time he has—and the more free time he has, the more they just…hang out.

Talk.

Watch nothing on TV.

Laugh and joke and tease each other and…

Without anything to get in the way of it…

To just be _brothers._

It’s quickly becoming a new normal and Papyrus likes it, a lot.

He’s…he’s happy and it feels like things are good.

He’s even started thinking about ditching his stripes—a rite of passage as he’s getting older—but even though he hasn’t really felt like a kid since………for awhile, he’s maybe not _quite_ ready to give up the free candy and Nice Scream and Cinnamon Bunnies he gets by keeping them.

“GOOD,” Sans nods in agreement when he admits as much. “MILK IT FOR ALL IT’S WORTH, YOU DESERVE IT.”

“you just want me to eat _their_ candy and not yours.”

“CAN’T BOTH BE TRUE?”

“candy hog.”

“MINE’S PURELY MEDICINAL! _YOU_ JUST HAVE A SWEET TOOTH.”

“they’re all sweet.”

“I BELIEVE IT. ARE YOU BRUSHING YOUR TEETH LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO?”

“don’t tell me what to do.”

 _“STARS,_ I’M PROUD OF YOU. …BUT SERIOUSLY, YOU BETTER BE BRUSHING!”

It’s good.

Things are good.

If there’s a downside—any downside at all—it would _maybe_ just be that—

“HRK…! _UGH……”_

—that _that_ was still happening.

Papyrus lingers in the doorway of the bathroom while his brother puked out guts he didn’t have, looking…

Well.

No worse than he ever looked, when these spells hit him.

…which was to say, _awful._

And.

And Papyrus is old enough now; knows enough of the world beyond what Sans has told him to know the usual reasons monsters get sick.

Growth spurts.

Using lots of magic.

Stress.

………

His brother hasn’t gotten any taller, but two out of three is still something.

Something…pretty not good.

Papyrus can make at least a couple guesses about what might be causing so much stress and demanding so much magic in Sans’ life, but…

What could _he_ do about it?

Sans starts to haul himself up off the floor. His legs are wobbling a little as he tries to get them under him, and it’s pure instinct that makes Papyrus ask.

“are you…okay?”

Even though he already knows the answer.

“I’M FINE.”

Practically Sans’ signature phrase.

~~His signature _lie_ , one Papyrus hasn’t fallen for in a really long time.~~

Still, Papyrus trails after him as he staggers off to his room, kind of just…needing to see him make it there.

“WHAT,” Sans huffs when he notices his escort. “DO YOU NEED SOMETHING? CAN IT WAIT?”

“no. i-i mean! no, i don’t need…you…i just……a-are you…gonna take a monster candy? or…?”

Sans shakes his head.

“OUT. IT’S FINE, I’M FINE, I’M GOING T’BED, JUS’…WAKE ME UP WHEN YOU WANT DINNER.”

Papyrus squirms at the words, a familiar bad feeling settling in his soul.

Sans is cracking open his door by the time he finally blurts it out—something he’d been thinking about asking for…for awhile now.

“hey! have…have you ever thought a-about…like…taking a, a day…off, or…whatever???”

A bandage of a solution at best, but…what if it helped? 

What if Sans just…rested, for once, and didn’t have to…to…

But before Papyrus can even fully articulate his own thoughts, Sans is snorting.

“THIS _IS_ MY DAY OFF,” he says. “I CALLED IN SOME VACATION TIME.”

His tone is breezy, totally casual for such a _sad_ , awful statement.

Papyrus had already used up all his nerve on asking the question in the first place, though, so when his brother disappears into his room, he…lets him.

But it doesn’t feel right.

 _He_ doesn’t feel right.

About…any of this.

It’s taken him long enough, but Papyrus is starting to realize how seriously Sans took that promise he made to take care of everything.

 _Too_ seriously.

It doesn’t feel right, anymore, that Sans is…doing whatever he does all day…and then coming home, not to put his feet up but to start dinner, and do the dishes, and the laundry, and…and balance their budget, or whatever.

It doesn’t feel right that his brother does all that stuff and the only time he ever takes a break is when he’s already sick and can’t enjoy it.

It doesn’t feel _fair._

Surely, Papyrus could… could help, couldn’t he?

He couldn’t…didn’t _want_ to do…what Sans did for them _out there,_ but in here, around the house.

That was just…chores and stuff…wasn’t it?

Papyrus could do some of that.

He wasn’t a babybones anymore—he was practically out of his stripes already, practically mature!

Yeah…

Yeah, he could handle some chores.

At least a _few_ things, while Sans was out.

That’s an easy goal, something Papyrus can do _for sure._

………

…Which is why the afternoon that ensues, after he steels his resolve, is probably _the_ most embarrassing of his life—even _without_ any witnesses.

Papyrus first decides to vacuum the living room: the carpet is looking a little flat and grimy and it seems like just the thing to fluff it up a little.

…Except that he can’t find the vacuum.

He spends an hour looking for it and ends up making a mess of several closets, digging around in them and upsetting the unnatural order of everything on the shelves and tucked into corners.

Papyrus is _not_ as good at real-life tetris as his brother is, _that’s_ for sure.

Still, he puts everything back as best he can and tries to do something else.

Laundry—that can’t be too hard, can it?

~~Famous last words.~~

He has some dirty socks and underwear, pajamas he’s worn way too many times… He can wash those right now.

Papyrus gathers them all up and goes to the laundry room.

There’s…a lot of settings, on the machines, lots of boxes and bottles and gauzy little rectangles, and he doesn’t really know what any of it is for, but there’s instructions written on things.

Papyrus can follow instructions.

…by the time he’s cleaned up all the suds, determined that his socks look _better_ pink than white, and accepted that his favorite red boxers are now his favorite pair of red hotpants, Papyrus amends the thought.

He can follow instructions, when they’re written out a _lot_ more clearly than _that._

Papyrus doesn’t even want to _think_ about his gross and weird attempt at dinner once it’s congealing at the bottom of the trash can, buried under every bit of trash he could find to cover it up with—not wanting it to _ever_ be seen again, by _anyone._

………

At least the dishes are clean.

………

Papyrus can…wash dishes.

………

Papyrus sits on the couch for a long time, wondering how he could _possibly_ be so _bad_ at… _everything._

(The obvious answer, he realizes years later, is that he never learned—no one ever taught him how to do any of those things, and watching someone else do it just isn’t the same as doing it yourself.)

But right then and there, he just feels…

Ashamed.

Helpless.

_Useless._

When Papyrus gets up again, it’s to dig around in his secret stash for his last Cinnamon Bunny.

He was saving it for later, but…there’s green magic in it.

The only green magic left in the house.

All monster food could nourish, but it was _hard_ to find the kind that healed—made with care and loving intent—and as far as Papyrus knew, the Buns were the only game in town.

Papyrus finds his Cinnamon Bunny and brings it straight to Sans’ room.

His brother swats at him and mumbles a lot of nonsense when he tries to wake him up, but Papyrus persists, making Sans take the pastry.

This is, apparently, the best that Papyrus can do.

It helps.

Sans begrudgingly eats it and perks up a bit, looking steadier in just a minute or two of processing the new magic.

And to Papyrus’ complete lack of surprise…he heads downstairs to go make dinner.

Sans notices his attempts.

At everything.

He’s not even _mad_ at Papyrus for making such a mess of everything, just laughs and gives him a patronizing pat on the skull and teases, “WHY DON’T WE LEAVE THAT STUFF TO ME NEXT TIME?”

“yeah……sorry.”

But after that, Papyrus doesn’t think he’s ready to give up his stripes yet.

He’s never felt less grown up in his _life._

-

It’s another couple years before Papyrus ditches his stripes, but even then, it’s not by choice.

He still feels like a dumb, scared kid in way over his head at…everything…but the growth spurt that hits him like a truck pretty much forces his hand.

He’s been slowly getting taller for awhile, but now he’s shot _up,_ practically overnight. He towers over Sans now, even when his brother’s wearing his highest heels, and it’s probably about as funny as it is _completely_ bizarre.

Papyrus looks at himself in the mirror when the fever and all the aches and pains have subsided and sees his canines big and pointed, his shoulders wider, his chest broader…

His claws are bigger, too—nowhere near as sharp as Sans’, but _big_ , like the rest of him, and…

Hell.

If Papyrus didn’t know what a _baby_ he really was, he might be scared of himself.

Sans thinks they should take advantage of that.

“how?”

“JUST COME OUT WITH ME SOMETIMES,” Sans says flippantly. “STAND NEXT TO ME AND LOOK INTIMIDATING.”

“next to _you?”_

Papyrus has a hard time picturing _anybody_ thinking he’d look scary next to _Sans,_ the _Captain_ of the Royal Guard, even _with_ his growth spurt.

“TRUST ME,” his brother drawls, tone dry as a desert. “APPEARANCE IS EVERYTHING. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW OFTEN PEOPLE START TO WONDER IF MY REPUTATION IS EXAGGERATED BECAUSE I’M ‘SHORTER THAN THEY EXPECTED.’”

“……snrk…even with th—”

 _“YES,_ PAPYRUS, EVEN WITH THE HEELS, PLEASE STAY FOCUSED.”

Papyrus mulls it over.

“i won’t…i don’t have to………?”

At least Sans is honest.

“YOU MIGHT HAVE TO DO SOME THINGS. YOU MIGHT HAVE TO DEFEND YOURSELF, SUMMON A FEW BONES, ACT LIKE YOU’RE _GOING_ TO ATTACK…BUT YOU WON’T HAVE TO FOLLOW THROUGH, NOT AS LONG AS I’M THERE.”

“you’ll…you’ll ‘hold me back,’ or whatever?” Papyrus guesses.

Sans grins.

“IF NECESSARY. I CAN COACH YOU AND WE CAN FIGURE OUT THE DETAILS IF IT’S SOMETHING YOU WANT TO DO.”

That makes Papyrus frown.

“why would _i_ wanna do it?”

“AREN’T YOU TIRED OF COASTING ON MY REPUTATION?”

Papyrus flinches, grateful that his brother is too engrossed in his morning coffee to zero in on it like he does everything else. 

“IT’S GOOD,” Sans continues. “IT’LL PROTECT YOU IN SNOWDIN FOR SURE, BUT ANYWHERE ELSE… MORE IS BETTER. THE GAME IS TO MAKE YOURSELF THE WORST POSSIBLE TARGET—IT’S GOOD IF MONSTERS ARE TOO SCARED OF WHAT I’LL DO IF THEY ATTACK YOU, BUT IT’S EVEN BETTER IF THEY’RE SCARED OF WHAT _YOU’LL_ DO IF THEY ATTACK YOU, TOO.”

Papyrus…actually had no problem at all with coasting on Sans’ reputation. 

It never even occurred to him that it might not always be enough.

But he supposed that was Sans—thinking everything through, knowing all the answers, being the best at everything…

And Papyrus just had to shut up and keep up.

“okay. i’ll try it.”

-

Papyrus spends hours practicing faces in the mirror, making the scariest ones…whatever passed for muscle-memory in skeletons whenever he wasn’t thinking.

He works out a system with Sans, a whole slew of subtle gestures and expressions and even _punctuation_ cues that work as silent communication between them, so they won’t have to break character.

He…

He doesn’t want to train.

He’s not ready for another Encounter yet, not even if it’s just for practice.

But he does, on his own, start making bones, just to make sure he still remembers how.

It’s almost disturbing how easy his bullets come, just as strong and robust as they ever were even though it’s been _years._

Undeniably _part_ of him.

And then, eventually, the time comes to…to try it out and see what happens.

“DO OR DIE,” Sans quips and Papyrus glares at him.

 _“not_ funny.”

He’s already nervous to be out of quiet, mostly peaceful Snowdin, already _all_ turned around between Waterfall’s pitch-black mazes and Hotland’s stupidly convoluted transportation systems.

He feels _hilariously_ unintimidating in his black jeans and his bulkiest, edgiest jacket while Sans cuts a _truly_ terrifying figure walking in front of him, kitted out in shiny black armor that clanked with every sure, purposeful step.

Papyrus is all too aware of what he is.

A soft, scaredy-cat _faker_ standing right next to the Real Deal.

This could never work.

He wasn’t…

He couldn’t do this—he was _bound_ to screw it up, and, and even if he _didn’t_ , who would _ever_ buy this?! 

That _he_ was…some sort of _tough guy?!_

It was ridiculous!

…Which is why Papyrus is so _glad_ for those hours of making his stern resting bitch-face second nature when it actually seems like it’s _working._

Nobody says anything, nobody gets close… a few people _look_ at him a little funny, but quickly look away when he makes eye-contact (against every natural instinct he has).

It’s crazy, but it works all the way to their destination, and—

“Captain! Looks like you’ve got a shadow.”

Papyrus doesn’t flinch at the booming voice that he’s only heard through walls and window panes before.

 _it’s fine,_ he reminds himself. _this is supposed to happen._

He stops when his brother stops, hovering just behind his shoulder and trying to look bored.

Sans offers a salute as General Alphys strides up to them, grinning almost amicably. 

She wears her new mantle as well as she wears her dented and scarred armor— _and_ the unnervingly gnarled scar over her eye that Sans had understated by a longshot.

“GENERAL,” Sans greets her pleasantly. “HOW ARE THE RECRUITS?”

Said recruits, doing some kind of drill on the vent mazes, look noticeably dismayed when Alphys doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Terrible. First day jitters, I _hope._ ”

“I HAVE COMPLETE FAITH IN YOUR ABILITIES TO RECTIFY THAT,” Sans replies. “UNLESS YOU’D LIKE SOME HELP…?”

“Nah, I got ‘em. We need _somebody_ doing sweeps while I’m stuck babysitting…”

Her eyes fall again on Papyrus.

He doesn’t flinch.

(…Noticeably.)

“So,” says Alphys. “Does your shadow talk?”

 _not without sounding stupid,_ Papyrus answers her in his head. _not without **stuttering** and saying everything **wrong** and looking like—_

“NOT REALLY,” Sans says casually. “PAPYRUS HASN’T EVER BEEN MUCH OF A TALKER.”

Recognition sparks on Alphys’ face.

“Ah, _this_ is the brother!” She looks him over, as if with new eyes. “…Bigger than I thought he’d be.”

“YES, AND A LOT MORE _TROUBLE,_ TOO.”

Sans glares at him out of the corner of his eye-socket, and Papyrus remembers what he’s supposed to do.

He snorts and rolls his eye-lights, scowling off into the distance at nothing—the ‘whatever, _dad’_ teenager personified.

“I THOUGHT I’D START BRINGING HIM ON PATROL WITH ME,” Sans explains. “I HAVE TO DO _SOMETHING_ WITH HIM.”

Alphys nods knowingly.

 _“That_ age, huh? Well, if this is your way of trying to drop a new recruit on me, I’m sure we could find _something_ to keep a troublemaker busy…”

Sans barks out a laugh.

“STARS, I WISH,” he chuckles. “I CAN BARELY MAKE HIM LISTEN TO _ME,_ I WON’T INFLICT THAT ON YOU.”

He couldn’t, anyway—in spite of his early bloom, Papyrus is decidedly a few _years_ short of the age requirement for the Royal Guard—but Sans makes no mention of _that._

It’s not relevant.

What’s relevant is all the young, new soldiers in the background listening to this conversation between their commanding officers with rapt, _gossip-loving_ attention.

Just like Sans said they would be.

“I JUST WANT HIM CLOSEBY TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM,” his brother continues, shooting another annoyed look backwards. _“COLLATERAL DAMAGE_ DOESN’T REFLECT VERY WELL ON ME, _PAPYRUS.”_

Papyrus, an anxious, socially inept tween _shut-in,_ has committed no such damage anywhere.

But the action of huffing and folding his arms like maybe he _had_ will be enough to get the rumor mill going.

 _“PEOPLE WILL TALK,”_ Sans had said. _“IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT YOU HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING, THEY’LL FILL IN THE BLANKS FOR YOU. THIS IS THE GROUNDWORK FOR YOUR OWN REPUTATION.”_

General Alphys laughs at his (false) display of attitude.

“I have complete faith in your abilities to keep him in line,” she says to his brother. “And if not…maybe don’t rule out the Guard just yet. Getting him to take orders can’t be any worse than getting _them_ to make it past the vents with a half-decent time… Bratty! Are you here to serve the Empress or are you here to hold Catty’s hand?!”

Sans takes the casual dismissal for what it is and bids Papyrus to follow him, back on patrol.

Papyrus slinks sullenly after him, like he was told to, and hopes he played his part right.

Sans thought he could do this.

He doesn’t want to let his brother down.

~~Again.~~

-

Either Papyrus is doing something right or ~~more likely~~ his brother knew what he was talking about.

Monsters steer _clear._

They did before, of course, usually the moment they spotted his collar, but now there’s something else to it as even in Snowdin, Papyrus starts to overhear gossip about himself: property he’s wrecked, people he’s beaten up, all the mean and nasty stuff he’d _totally_ done to get put under _direct_ supervision by Captain Serif, _his own brother._

It’s crazy and Papyrus has never felt more like a fraud in his life…

…but the Nice Scream guy gives him double punches on his card every time he goes now, so…y’know, that’s pretty cool.

At least he starts to feel better about leaving Snowdin, and not only because he has Sans with him.

He’s getting…a little more confident, a little less afraid that somebody will just…attack him in the middle of the day, out in the open.

The girl (Quinn) all those years ago…was just a fluke, a kid who didn’t know any better.

 _(Grown_ monsters did their dirty work in the dark, in secret corners of the Underground where the Guard couldn’t see or prove they’d done anything.)

Papyrus was…more or less…safe.

Nobody was going to bother him.

………

Except.

Papyrus is home alone one day—“I’M CLEARING WATERFALL TODAY, I HAVE TO STAY SHARP AND I DON’T WANT TO LOSE TRACK OF YOU IN _WATERFALL,”_ —just browsing the Undernet when it happens.

A notification pings in his browser.

**SmartFish91 jabbed you**

Papyrus frowns.

He doesn’t have any Undernet friends…or any Undernet enemies…and he doesn’t know who ‘SmartFish91’ is or why they jabbed him, but…

He clicks the button to jab back.

And so begins Papyrus’ first, (subjectively) beautiful friendship (of a sort).

It starts with the jabbing war that lasts well into the night, and then a chat message accusing him of having pretty much no life, to which he points out that they must not have much of one either and that they started it, which they concede.

Messaging each other, liking and commenting on the same posts, trolling _whenever_ possible…it turns into a regular thing.

A good thing.

It’s a long time before Papyrus can actually put anything besides she/her pronouns to the username, but SmartFish91 already seems to know quite a bit about him.

 **SmartFish91:** So like…your brother. Are he and General Alphys like…a Thing, or…?

 **chillskeleton95:** what

 **chillskeleton95:** no, ew, she’s his boss

 **chillskeleton95:** wait how’d you know i have a brother???

 **SmartFish91:** Dude, there’s TWO skeletons in the ENTIRE Underground and I’m pretty sure the other one doesn’t have time to shoot the shit with me at 2AM

 **SmartFish91:** Plus your firewall is garbo, I’ve already seen everything on your desktop

 **SmartFish91:** You should really clear your history lol

If Papyrus were ~~more like his brother~~ more cautious, he’d have cut contact right then and there.

Maybe he should have.

But…for better or worse…Papyrus isn’t like Sans.

And having someone to talk to, someone that _isn’t_ Sans, has actually been…really, really fun.

So, he just sticks a piece of duct tape over his webcam, just in case, and then replies.

 **chillskeleton95:** what’s in your history then? ‘alphys sexy,’ ‘general alphys pinup,’ ‘hot naked lizard lady,’ ‘please give nudes i’m desperate’

 **SmartFish91:** NO

 **SmartFish91:** SHUT UP!!!

And…that’s that.

Eventually, Papyrus learns more about his sorta-friend, in that gradual, piecemeal path that online friendships tend to follow.

 **chillskeleton95:** wait how are you older than me?

 **SmartFish91:** That’s what I said! Did you bargain your firstborn to the puberty fairy or some shit? I found before pictures, you got BIG

 **chillskeleton95:** yeah… just built that way, i guess

 **SmartFish91:** Actually it’s illegal for you to be my height, you’re supposed to be a twerp, I’m gonna need to confiscate some of your inches

 **chillskeleton95:** no?

 **SmartFish91:** I’ve studied human anatomy and you skeletons don’t look much different, I bet I could surgically remove your knees

 **chillskeleton95:** no??? i need them???

 **SmartFish91:** Too bad, I’m coming for ‘em!

And on another occasion…

 **SmartFish91:** Wish me luck, I’m going for it

 **chillskeleton95:** good luck

 **SmartFish91:** ‘Good luck’? That’s it?

 **SmartFish91:** I am petitioning the Empress herself for a job that hasn’t been filled in literal decades

 **SmartFish91:** A job where I’d have complete freedom to do any experiments I want in service of all monsterkind, with access to the ROYAL LABS and all their equipment

 **SmartFish91:** And ROYAL FUNDING

 **SmartFish91:** I’m gonna need more than ‘good luck’ here!

 **chillskeleton95:** …super-good luck???

 **SmartFish91:** Now THAT’S more like it!

………

 **SmartFish91:** Okay she said no

 **chillskeleton95:** :(

 **SmartFish91:** But I’m not giving up!

 **chillskeleton95:** :)

(When she eventually creates Napstaton, the Underground’s first human-killing robot-slash-deejay and becomes the Royal Scientist, Papyrus will tell her he believed in her all along.)

(She’ll call bullshit and hit him in the arm the next time she sees him in real life, but he’ll tell her all the same.)

By the time they’re on a first-name basis with each other, they’ve graduated to pretty much the ultimate level of friendship.

Sharing radical political opinions.

 **SmartFish91:** It’s fucking stupid that we live like this, it’s a hellhole

 **chillskeleton95:** it is!

 **chillskeleton95:** like…why?!

 **SmartFish91:** There’s no reason!

 **SmartFish91:** Not a GOOD one anyway

 **SmartFish91:** Like, yeah, it sucks down here, we live in a cave, nobody has enough of anything, we’re all pissed about it

 **SmartFish91:** But why are we taking it out on each other?!

 **chillskeleton95:** yeah!

 **SmartFish91:** Why did I have to cyberstalk you for a week before I realized you were cool and like…normal? Why do I have to watch my back around everyone I ever meet, just in case they’re dangerous? Why do I have be ready for a fight EVERY TIME I leave my house so I don’t get surprised by some lowlife?

 **SmartFish91:** It’s fucked up, and just ‘cause some humans stuck us down here? We should be working together so we can ALL get out, not fighting and killing each other like crabs in a bucket

 **chillskeleton95:** it’s not fair

Papyrus means the words down to his very soul, and it’s a relief he never knew he needed to have someone to say it to; someone who _agreed_ with him.

It’s not like he’d never tried to talk about it, with his brother, but…

“you’re not… how can you be……okay…with _this?”_ Papyrus had asked once, gesturing broadly to indicate…everything—every terrible, dreary, _violent_ aspect of their lives Underground.

Sans had just given him a strange, shuttered look, one that not even Papyrus could read, and shrugged.

“…IT COULD BE WORSE,” he’d said at length.

Papyrus hadn’t had anything to say to that.

He didn’t see how.

But even not seeing how it could be worse, he knew in his bones that it could be a hell of a lot _better_ , too.

And Undyne _agrees_ with him.

 **chillskeleton95:** we deserve better

 **StrongFish91:** We do!

 **StrongFish91:** I think it all comes down to the Royal Guard, honestly

 **StrongFish91:** They keep the peace and get rid of the crazies who just kill for fun, but like…look at the ratio! It’s like…ONE Guardsman to every HUNDRED monsters, what the hell are they supposed to do, really?

 **StrongFish91:** Not even ALPHYS can protect everybody at once, and she’s practically a hero!

 **StrongFish91:** And I guess, like, your brother too

 **StrongFish91:** If I weren’t already doing the science thing, I’d join the Guard. The poor bastards are just too understaffed to be really effective

 **StrongFish91:** I mean, if more people cared, if more people TRIED…I don’t know, maybe it would be better down here.

Yeah…

Yeah, maybe…it would be…

-

Sans chokes on his wine when Papyrus brings it up at dinner.

“I’M SORRY—YOU _WHAT?”_

“i wanna join the guard.”

“NO, YOU DON’T.”

“i—”

 _“NO,_ YOU DON’T,” Sans says again, more firmly this time. “YOU DON’T HAVE ANY _IDEA_ WHAT… IT’S NOT FOR YOU.”

“but—”

“PAPYRUS. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’LL BE ASKED TO _DO_ IF YOU JOIN THE GUARD?”

“………”

“YOU’LL HAVE TO TRAIN. YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT. YOU’LL HAVE TO _KILL._ YOU _DON’T_ WANT THAT.”

“…n…no, but…”

“BUT WHAT?”

“i…i dunno, i just……i-i’m _sixteen_ an’ i…i feel like i should……be doin’ something…”

The hard expression on his brother’s face softens a little at the admission.

“THAT’S EXACTLY MY POINT, PAPYRUS,” he nonetheless says. “YOU’RE _SIXTEEN._ YOU DON’T _NEED_ TO BE DOING ANYTHING. I’VE GOT IT HANDLED, OKAY?”

Papyrus probably shouldn’t say it.

He’s…frustrated and upset and he knows that Sans is right (when _isn’t_ he?) but that just makes it _worse_ and…

And it kind of just…slips out, the words dripping in bitter guilt.

“how old were _you_ when you joined up again?”

“………”

Sans just stares at him, over the table, eye-lights extinguished.

The guilt sharpens.

Papyrus stands up and leaves the table, heading up to his room.

Suddenly, he’s…not very hungry.

-

They don’t talk to each other for maybe a week.

Papyrus guesses that Sans feels bad for not having a better answer and doesn’t know how to talk about it, and Papyrus just wishes that he was…

~~Stronger.~~

~~Braver.~~

~~Better.~~

Different.

That he could…

………

He doesn’t know.

He’s scribbling something in the vague shape of a tree—wondering if trees look the same on the Surface and figuring he’ll probably never find out anyway—when the door to his room opens.

Papyrus watches Sans come in and sit on his bed, claws laced, elbows on his knees.

He doesn’t say anything for awhile and Papyrus doesn’t push him to hurry up: Sans will talk when he’s got his words sorted and not a moment before.

“…I HATE THIS,” he says eventually. “I HATE THIS ALMOST MORE THAN I’VE EVER HATED ANYTHING, AND……FOR THE RECORD, I THINK IT’S A HORRIBLE IDEA.”

Papyrus frowns.

“what is?”

Sans takes a deep breath.

“I PULLED SOME STRINGS. NO BOOTCAMP, YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO TRY OUT.”

“for what???”

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE A SENTRY,” Sans tells him. “NOT _ONE_ RANK HIGHER, AND IF YOU EVEN _TRY_ TO SEE COMBAT, I’LL BLOCK ANY PROMOTIONS MYSELF—NEPOTISM’S GETTING YOU THIS JOB AND IT’LL _KEEP_ YOU THERE, AM I CLEAR?”

For a minute, all Papyrus can do is stare at his brother, jaw hanging open.

“wh…wait, a-are you… are you _serious?”_

“UNFORTUNATELY,” Sans sighs. “YOU START IN TWO WEEKS. BEARTHA’S GOING ON MATERNITY LEAVE, SO THERE’S AN OPENING. MY OLD STATION NEAR THE FOREST, FIVE A.M. SHARP. ……I’LL MAKE SURE YOU’RE AWAKE.”

“you……you changed your mind? really?”

“AGAINST MY BETTER JUDGMENT,” Sans admits, looking chagrined. “I DON’T KNOW WHY THIS IS IMPORTANT TO YOU, BUT…SITTING SOMEWHERE AND WALKING AROUND SOMETIMES TO MAKE SURE NOBODY’S DOING STUFF THEY’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SHOULDN’T BE… _THAT_ DANGEROUS. IN SNOWDIN.”

Sans turns to him, his smile…very obviously nervous, but still encouraging.

“IF YOU WANT TO TRY, THE LEAST I CAN DO IS MAKE IT EASIER FOR YOU.”

Papyrus doesn’t have the words for a proper ‘thank you.’

He reaches out instead, practically tackling Sans with a grateful hug and not letting go, even though his brother tenses up and takes awhile to hug back.

Papyrus doesn’t know how to explain it, but…

He needs this.

He _needs_ to do something, he _needs_ to help and to make things better and to _try,_ and to…to…

~~To be less useless.~~

To be different.

Papyrus _needs_ things to be different.

This is _exactly_ the chance he needed.

-

He lasts a month.

It’s a great month, for the most part.

His brother’s old sentry post is real quiet, far enough from Snowdin proper that he almost never sees anything but a few kids roughhousing away from their parents, close enough that he can walk to town on patrol or a lunch break (like old times).

The snow-covered landscapes—the trees and rocks and cliffs—are all so pretty and he has plenty of downtime to sketch bits and pieces of them, sometimes even to finish whole drawings if it’s a particularly calm day.

His shift starts early, but Sans wakes him up on time and drops him off and comes to get him when it’s over and…

And Papyrus is _helping._

He’s…he’s doing something good, for monsters _and_ for his brother, even if it’s small—the sleepy outskirts of Snowdin are staying peaceful and Papyrus is bringing home a paycheck for the first time ever.

He’s not really sure how _much_ he’s getting paid, since Sans is the one who deals with that stuff still, but he figures it’s good money.

It _has_ to be, with the time Sans spends balancing their budget suddenly cut in _half._

Papyrus is contributing, finally, and his brother looks _proud_ of him.

It’s really, really… _really_ good.

Which is probably why it hurts so much when he screws it up.

When he falls asleep on the job one morning, literally.

When he lets the relative peace and quiet and the exhaustion from his late night (for no reason at all!) lull him into a sense of security that was _very_ false.

A bullet to the face is a _hell_ of a way to be woken up.

Papyrus is up almost instantly, feeling the drop in his HP and the sharp ache on the side of his face where it hit.

He staggers trying to face his attacker, holding a hand over his mouth, and his eye-sockets go wide when he sees the monster who hit him.

Papyrus _knows_ him.

He’s known him for _years_ and doesn’t know what to say; what to _think_ to see him standing there now, looking ready to _FIGHT._

“Sorry, kid,” the monster says, desperate but with conviction. “I gotta… I’m in trouble, I need the EXP, fast, and ha, I…I _know_ you’re not as tough as you tell people…”

“i don’t…w-wait,” Papyrus stammers, already backing away. He can taste dust in his words and it scares him. “yuh…you don’t have to…you don’t have to, to _do_ this, you _don’t!”_

“I do.”

The monster advances and…

Just like with Quinn, Papyrus turns on his heel and _runs._

~~In a manner most unbefitting of a sentry in the service of the Royal Guard.~~

This time, he’s faster, his legs longer, and he knows better than to let the pain of another bullet striking him _hard_ in the shoulder slow him down.

The monster chases him, and it takes Papyrus a terrifying _hour_ of ducking behind trees, doubling back, sliding across an ice patch and clipping through a (thankfully empty) shack to finally lose the guy.

He retreats all the way home, knowing it’s predictable but at the same time knowing it’s in the middle of Snowdin and a goddamn _fortress_ besides with how tightly Sans kept it buttoned up, and it would be safe.

Papyrus locks himself in the bathroom.

He needs to sit on the floor and shake for a little bit before anything else.

When he can finally breathe again, he pulls himself up by the sink to look at himself in the mirror.

If he had a stomach, it would’ve dropped at the sight he sees.

One of his canines is _gone,_ knocked right _out_ in the brief scuff—…oh, who was _he_ kidding? 

He’d have had to have _participated_ to call it a ‘scuffle.’

All he did was _run._

_stupid…!_

_So_ stupid to have been caught like that, he can’t _believe_ he was that dumb and now he’s missing a _tooth!_

Tears well up in his eye-sockets and Papyrus tries to pretend it’s just from the pain.

He’s managed to awkwardly, haltingly wrestle off the top of his uniform to get a look at the dusty gouge in his scapula by the time the last person in the world he wants to see right now bursts right in.

Or… _shortcuts_ in.

Sans looks expectedly harried when he pops into existence next to Papyrus, his eye-sockets wide and panicked.

He sags noticeably to see his brother standing there, in one piece, and Papyrus lets out a shaky ~~resigned~~ sigh as gloved claws reach for him, already glowing green.

“STARS,” Sans breathes. “YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL ME…”

Papyrus says nothing.

He just lets his brother heal him, closing his eye-sockets as the ache drains away and his HP rises.

It’s not until Sans is working on his face that he speaks again.

“WHO WAS IT.”

It’s very much _not_ a question.

Papyrus squirms.

He doesn’t…really want to answer…but Sans jostles him a little, making him look at him.

His expression is _serious,_ brooking no argument.

“PAPYRUS. TELL ME.” Sans’ eye-lights are intense, practically boring into his. “I CAN’T LET THIS GO.”

Papyrus knows.

Which is precisely _why_ he doesn’t want to say anything.

With the look on his brother’s face right now…

Papyrus _knows_ that saying a name would be the same as signing a death warrant.

“sans…”

 _“PAPYRUS,”_ Sans says right back. “NOBODY GETS TO HURT YOU AND GET AWAY WITH IT. IT OPENS THE DOOR FOR TOO MUCH, IF I DON’T TAKE CARE OF IT NOW, YOUR COLLAR MEANS _NOTHING_. DO YOU WANT THAT?”

“………”

No.

Of _course_ not.

But…

The look on Sans’ face changes, going shrewd; calculating.

“…WHAT ABOUT OTHER MONSTERS THEN?” he asks, switching tactic. “DO YOU THINK WHOEVER ATTACKED YOU WILL GIVE UP BECAUSE THEY LOST YOU? DO YOU THINK THEY WON’T JUST ATTACK SOMEONE ELSE?”

………

Papyrus _knows_ he will.

He needed EXP, he said, he needed it fast, he absolutely _would_ just go looking for someone else to take it out of.

He was an active danger to the peace of the Underground; to the monsters who weren’t strong enough or fast enough or clever enough to protect themselves.

Exactly the kind of threat the Royal Guard was supposed to defend against.

And the _only_ thing Papyrus would’ve felt worse about than snitching on his own behalf.

_**damn** it…_

Papyrus screws his sockets shut, physically drooping in surrender.

“buck,” he reluctantly chokes out. “it was buck.”

Sans lets go of him, stepping back and taking a slow breath.

“ALRIGHT,” he says. “STAY HERE. I’LL SORT EVERYTHING OUT.”

And then, he’s gone.

Papyrus slinks off to his room and grabs up his old black notebook, deciding to draw to pass the time until his brother comes back.

He figures he should get Buck’s antlers down now while the shape of them is still fresh in his mind.

He won’t be seeing them—or Buck—ever again.

-

Papyrus hears some pretty nasty rumors about Buck in the days that follow: gambling debts, public fights, assaulting a member of the Royal Guard, _finally_ stopped while firing bullets at a _child…_

He doesn’t know if more than the third thing is true, but he feels _awful_ when he hears about what his brother did with the man’s dust.

Empress Toriel herself publicly censures Sans for the ‘overkill’ of spreading even a dangerous criminal’s remains throughout his parents’ house, but Sans accepts the reprimand contritely, with grace.

All he says on the matter is that he takes attacks on his family _very_ seriously, and the matter is dropped there.

Papyrus gets a _very_ wide berth now _wherever_ he goes, and he has a feeling it’s exactly what Sans intended to happen.

Sans also gets him an appointment to have his tooth replaced—a shiny gold replica that matches the tag on his collar—hand-stitches up the tear in his uniform and the shirt he’d been wearing beneath it, and informs him that he’ll no longer be serving as a sentry in three days’ time.

“but—”

“UNRELATED TO THE INCIDENT, OF COURSE,” he says, as if Papyrus hadn’t spoken. “IT’LL HAVE TO BE A DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE, UNFORTUNATELY, BUT I’LL SPIN IT TO YOUR ADVANTAGE. CITE ABANDONING OF YOUR POST, DEFIANCE OF AUTHORITY…YOU’LL SOUND VERY COOL AND REBELLIOUS.”

“i…it wasn’t… _that_ bad…”

“YOU LOST A _TOOTH.”_

“……i mean…i could still—”

“PAPYRUS,” Sans cuts him off again.

Papyrus looks up at his brother.

He has his Very Serious face on again, but deeper, in his eye-lights…

There’s something that looks a lot like _fear._

“YOU’RE NOT GOING BACK,” Sans tells him. “I CAN’T KEEP FINDING YOUR DUST IN THE SNOW. I _CAN’T.”_

And…

Well…

That’s that.

“…okay.”

Papyrus probably _should_ just do…whatever Sans tells him to do.

Giving his brother one less thing to worry about…

It’s starting to feel like the best—and the absolute _least—_ that he can do.

-

The next couple years are a monotony for Papyrus.

He follows Sans on patrols, when he’s asked to.

He stays home, when he’s asked to.

And that’s about all he does.

Whatever he’s asked to.

Papyrus knows his brother well enough to know that he’s picked up on the weirdness and tension between them now, but since he hasn’t said anything, he can only assume Sans hasn’t figured out how to fix it yet.

If there _is_ a way, Papyrus would love to see it.

With how things are now, down here—with the way their whole terrible _world_ is—he just can’t see a way that they could ever be good.

Fine, maybe.

They can be fine.

But ‘good’ is just too far out of reach.

So…for awhile, they’re fine.

And that has to be good enough.

-

Until it isn’t.

Apparently, even Papyrus has his limits.

Nothing in particular _happens_ to set him off, no big dramatic event…just a series of small ones, over and over, building up on each other.

It’s a special kind of maddening to be stuck in the house all day long, even for a skeleton whose hobbies are ninety percent sedentary—only the vague brightening and dimming of the artificial light outside and a clock to tell what time it even is, _never_ knowing what day, forced to try and base _any_ semblance of a schedule off Sans’ comings and goings and just being constantly reminded that his brother is a workaholic who never stops moving, never stops taking on more responsibility, never _rests_ until he’s about to pass out or he’s made himself sick again…

And feeling ungrateful for even _having_ such a thought, because it’s Sans he has to thank for… _everything,_ from not having to constantly fight for his life every time he goes outside to never having to do laundry or cook or any other basic household task that he should _know_ by now, he’s a _grown skeleton_ and he—………

It’s a lot.

Papyrus gets…frustrated.

So.

He starts going out again.

By himself.

Sometimes with an excuse—grocery run, taking some pictures, meeting Undyne at the Dump—sometimes without, going _nowhere_ just to be going _somewhere._

Papyrus can tell by the look on Sans’ face that he doesn’t really _like_ it, but he doesn’t try to _stop_ him either and that’s probably the best he’s gonna get.

(He could do without the silent, invisible tail he tends to pick up whenever his brother isn’t working or happens to be having a slow day… but if it keeps Sans from worrying himself even _further_ into an early grave, he can deal.)

Unfortunately…

Going out as much as he starts to do comes with…consequences.

With encounters.

And sometimes _Encounters._

Papyrus tries running.

He tries calling for the Guard.

He even tries fighting back as little as monsterly possible.

He tries _everything_ he can think of and somehow it always ends the same way: new scars for his back and his arms and a new portrait in his notebook of faces he can _never_ forget.

Somehow, the latter hurts so much worse than the former.

Papyrus was built tough, just like Sans had always said, and he could take the chips and divots in his bones—but every new page he has to fill is like an arrow right to his soul.

He doesn’t want LV. He doesn’t want EXP.

He just wants…

~~He just wants it all to _stop._~~

He just wants to be left alone.

Desperate, he finally asks for help.

 **chillskeleton95:** is there anywhere to go down here that isn’t a fucking cage-fight 

**chillskeleton95:** like is it seriously just on-sight as soon as nobody’s looking EVERYWHERE

 **chillskeleton95:** it can’t be, please

 **SmartFish91:** Are you okay?

 **chillskeleton95:** no

 **chillskeleton95:** i’m sick of having to FIGHT every time i go outside

 **chillskeleton95:** you know everything, help me, i can’t do this

 **SmartFish91:** Okay okay, hang on, I’m gonna call you

 **SmartFish91:** And you better pick up ‘cause you know it’s just me!

Undyne calls.

She…talks him down from the ledge of…what was shaping up to be a pretty _nasty_ panic attack.

 _“It’s fine, no big deal,”_ she says when he’s calmer. _“I get ‘em all the time. I think a lot of us do.”_

Papyrus doesn’t know if that’s true or if she’s just saying it so he doesn’t feel embarrassed. 

Either way, it’s pretty nice of her.

And then she tells him about Muffet’s.

“…the spider lady’s place???”

Papyrus has seen it—of _course_ he has, it’s Snowdin’s most popular venue—but he’s never been inside.

 _Lots_ of out-of-towners frequented the place and it was constantly full of big, bad, _scary_ -looking cityfolk.

He’d never had the guts to go in himself, not even for some _damn_ good-looking donuts.

 _“It’s pretty much a ‘no screwing around’ zone,”_ Undyne explains. _“The owner, Muffet—all her staff are spiders. The little kind. If one of them gets squished ‘cause of some meatheads dicking around, it’s a lifetime ban…or, y’know, worse.”_

…Right.

_“But from what I’ve read, it seems like everybody knows that by now, so it’s pretty tame. Just, uh…watch your step, I guess, and it should be fine!”_

“yeah…okay. i can…i can check it out…”

Snowdin was his home-turf, he could…probably handle it.

No matter how many tough, judgmental strangers were crowded into the place.

“if i die, tell sans you sent me there.”

_“Oh hell no, he’ll kill me! I **just** got a date with Alphys, I literally cannot die before that.”_

“you’d deny my dying wish that you die for killing me???”

 _“Gals before pals, dude,”_ laments Undyne. _“That’s just how it has to be…”_

“…yeah, fair enough.”

Papyrus goes to Muffet’s.

Conversation stops and everyone _stares_ at him when he first steps through the door, like the world’s most bizarre western, set in a café full of monsters.

Papyrus keeps his eye-lights forward and tries not to noticeably shake as he approaches the counter. 

He orders only a black coffee (because it involves the least amount of talking and he can say it without stammering), and all five of Muffet’s eyes squint suspiciously at him while one of her spiders holds up a little sign that says, _**Take a seat.**_

Papyrus slowly makes his way to an empty table, taking care to miss every spider on the floor with his boots. He stares straight down at the surface of the counter in silence until another (very strong!) arachnid appears with his cup.

He thanks it, and the next one that shows up with a card asking, _**Sugar? Milk?**_ when he takes what is surely an inordinate amount of time nursing the single (disgustingly bitter) coffee he ordered.

Yet another spider eventually brings his bill and the number is considerably smaller than what the sign on the wall said, but he leaves the necessary G (plus a tip) and exits without incident.

When next Papyrus works up the courage to go back, the spiders shoo him straight to a table and present him an exactly right coffee—creamy pale, with grit at the bottom where the sugar stopped dissolving.

He doesn’t think to protest until they bring out a whole sampler box of donuts that he didn’t order, with one of every flavor, but by then, Muffet herself appears at his shoulder to cut him off.

“We like polite customers,” she says in a sibilant whisper, smiling widely. “Don’t worry, the first box is free, ahuhuhu~”

In fairness…

Papyrus only needs one _bite_ to see why she can get away with a promotion like that.

The coffee is good. 

The donuts are _incredible._

The patrons are quiet and nobody fights and most of them seem to be just like Papyrus—wanting nothing more than to sit there awhile and be left _alone._

It’s _exactly_ his scene

He’s found his oasis.

-

Things…stabilize after that, for Papyrus.

Something about having somewhere to _go_ (that _isn’t_ locked up in his own ~~brother’s~~ house) does wonders for his peace of mind.

With Muffet’s as an option, he doesn’t _have_ to resort to hiding in mysterious ice caves with weird doors that make him feel like he’s being watched, or in unmapped alcoves full of goofy flowers that still bite if you get too close, or even go _near_ Hotland and its terrible public transportation.

He can just go to his favorite patisserie and _know_ he’ll be safe as soon as he gets there, because Muffet runs a _very_ tight ship.

The closest Papyrus ever sees to an altercation is the time when Undyne—on one of her rare visits to Snowdin—is firmly, yet politely asked to leave, for being too loud.

Of all the things Papyrus could say to his kinda-sorta-not-really-but-maybe-a-little-bit friend’s credit, her volume control (and its consistency) was not one of them and Muffet’s two-strike rule was simply non-negotiable.

Undyne took her ban with good grace at least, and assured Papyrus that she’d rather go hunting around Hotland for Grillby’s super-delicious cheese fries anyway, and well, though he’s never understood the fascination with _grease_ everybody he cares about seems to have, he can respect it.

Even without her, Muffet’s is still a real nice place with plenty of familiar things to make him feel comfortable.

Snow and pine trees outside the window, harpsichord remixes of Napstaton music playing on the radio, a few locals mingling with the out-of-towners…

Papyrus never knew that the Nice Scream guy was seeing somebody until he started seeing him get coffee every other day with the same grinning cat, sitting _real_ close to him and even _smiling_ when he called him by his name.

(He didn’t know that the Nice Scream guy’s real name was Bleu until then either, but that’s beside the point.)

Even _Sans_ stops into Muffet’s on occasion, and that had been a hell of a surprise the first time Papyrus had looked up from his mug to see his brother just _there_ without warning.

Sans sits with him while he finishes subtly choking on coffee, waiting for his own order to be ready.

“SNAILS,” he explains. “THE EMPRESS GETS _NOSTALGIC_ SOMETIMES AND TRIES TO RECREATE OLD RECIPES. MUFFET HAS AN AGREEMENT WITH THE GHOST WHO MAINTAINS BLOOK ACRES—HE LIKES OWNING THE LAND, APPARENTLY, BUT NOT THE SNAILS, SO HE FARMS THAT OUT TO THE SPIDER FAMILY. IF I RECALL CORRECTLY, HE HAD A COUSIN WHO USED TO HELP HIM WITH THE DIRTY WORK, BUT…”

Papyrus tunes out somewhere around there, not really interested in gossip or thinking it very important, but letting Sans keep talking anyway.

After that run-in, Papyrus starts finding a little extra G in his pockets and he guesses that’s Sans’ way of saying he approves of the hangout, too.

So that’s good.

One less thing to ~~make Sans~~ worry about.

-

Papyrus gradually gains an…entourage, of sorts.

Much as he’d _love_ to believe he’s making friends, he’s not dumb enough to believe that’s actually what’s happening when certain monsters start inching closer to him, tentatively sitting at his table, offering bits of their pastries for the privilege.

A Whimsun, a couple of Shroombas, Slimes, Moldsmals, and Wisps…

All small monsters.

 _Weak_ ones.

Papyrus knows very well what it is when they cluster around him and try to curry his favor, and he doesn’t mind that they don’t _really_ talk to him or know him or seem to have any interest in getting to do so.

He also knows how valuable it is to be able to feel safe down here, even for just a little while, and he doesn’t have it in him to begrudge any of them that privilege.

They take his wordless grunts and his Intense Looks as full sentences and never expect anything else from him, and the free good-will croissants and macarons they slide over to him on the regular are a real nice perk.

……But these ‘friends’ of his do occasionally put him in some very awkward situations.

“You want some, big guy?” the Dewdrop asks, holding a bone-shape out to him in offering.

A Dog Treat.

Papyrus looks at it a second, hoping his uncertainty isn’t coming through on his skull.

In case it is, he makes a purposeful expression of vague distaste and hums, like maybe he’s just not really into it…and definitely _not_ a very sheltered skeleton who’s never been this _close_ to a Dog Treat, much less actually smoked one, and doesn’t want to risk making a fool of himself in front of a bunch of monsters who think he’s actually cool.

Unfortunately for him, the Dewdrop insists.

“No, no, it’s cool,” they press, “it’s safe, it’s the good stuff—I got it from Doggo!”

The name of the guy who throws ice in the river all day means nothing to Papyrus, except…

Except now he can’t…really see a way to back out of this situation—not without looking like a wet blanket or a wuss.

So…

To protect his reputation…

Papyrus takes the Dog Treat.

It’s already lit, so he doesn’t have to worry about that, and it’s easy to pinch it between his claws the way he’s seen everybody else do, when they’ve smoked around him in the past.

He raises it to his teeth and hopes he can handle this…

The smoke he inhales is…surprisingly sweet, with just a hint of spice, like gingerbread…but not. He holds it for a beat and then exhales, closing his sockets as he does because the last thing he wants is to be a spectacle; to be coaxed to do it again because it _looked_ cool or something dumb like that.

And then…

He passes the Treat to the Whimsun next to him.

He didn’t cough or sputter or…or pass out or _any_ of the embarrassing things he’d worried he might do.

Everything’s fine.

Papyrus, the chill, scary badass remains intact as far as everyone’s concerned.

It’s not until it’s gone around the group a few times and he’s had a couple puffs that Papyrus even feels it.

And all he _feels_ is…relaxed.

He’s not sure what he was expecting—hallucinations? Melting walls and spinning rooms?—but there’s nothing like that at all.

Papyrus just feels calm. 

A little looser than normal, a little more talkative, and when actually he opens his mouth, he doesn’t trip over a _single word!_

Honestly, if it weren’t for the lingering feeling of doing something he’s not supposed to be doing, Papyrus would call it great.

Still, he’s definitely nervous by the time he makes his way home, unlocking and relocking the front door with exaggerated care, hoping he seems…

Normal?

Or at least, normal enough to _pass_.

……Already _knowing_ that he won’t.

Papyrus doesn’t think he’s ever gotten anything past Sans, and he can’t imagine why his luck would start now.

Sure enough, as soon as his foot touches the first stair up to his room…

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Sans demands, leaning out of the kitchen. “DINNER’S ALMOST READY. DON’T TELL ME YOU FILLED UP ON D—………”

Sweat beads along Papyrus’ skull at the look his brother gives him, narrowed eye-sockets and a displeased scowl.

A _knowing_ displeased scowl.

Busted, and Papyrus didn’t even have to say a _word_.

“…GET IN HERE,” Sans says eventually, his tone too sharp to disagree with, so of course, Papyrus goes.

He sits at the table, awaiting the lecture.

He eats dinner, awaiting the lecture.

He goes up to his room, awaiting the lecture.

But it never comes.

After a few days, Papyrus starts to wonder if Sans had even noticed after all, or if the Dog Treat had just made him paranoid…?

It’s only about a week before he gets an answer.

In the form of a whole box of Dog Treats and a copy of the key to the liquor cabinet, presented to him by his very straight-faced brother.

“YOU’RE A GROWN SKELETON,” he says as Papyrus looks at his ‘gift’ with growing embarrassment. “I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU CAN AND CAN’T DO, JUST…IF YOU’RE GOING TO DO IT, YOU SHOULD DO IT _HERE_ FIRST AND NOT BE OUT IN _PUBLIC_ UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF THINGS YOU’VE NEVER EVEN _TRIED_ BEFORE, IT, IT’S JUST UNSAFE! I—”

“okay!” Papyrus ekes out, his skull feeling like it’s on fire. “i got it! thanks!”

And then, he all but runs up to his room, filing the whole conversation under Awkward Moments To Forget, right next to The Talk.

-

Papyrus can…eventually…appreciate the gesture.

When he can look at _any_ of that stuff with curiosity again and _not_ mortification, he’s able to try things out in the safety of his own room, without the judgment of his peers or the risk of something worse happening to him.

He learns his limits at his own pace, his likes and dislikes, how his body reacts to what and how he feels about it.

Dog Treats are fine, but don’t seem to do much for him beyond that feeling of chill, maybe not _worth_ the pervasive, guilty feeling of ‘you’re not supposed to be doing this’ that comes with it, ultimately.

Most booze tastes _terrible_ —he has no idea how Sans can actually seem to _enjoy_ the bitter taste of wine—but enough juice can make just about anything palatable, and it gives him that same loose feeling…to an extent.

Too much of _any_ of it makes him feel sick, sometimes even into the next _morning,_ and that serves as a hell of a reminder for moderation.

It’s an ongoing learning experience.

A practice run.

-

By the time Papyrus ends up at an actual, real bar in the Capital, he feels okay—even when he can’t remember _how_ he got talked into coming here and can’t spot a single familiar face in the crowd.

He just hovers at the bar nursing his drink, something that’s supposed to taste _just_ like the ‘Mai Tai’s that humans drink…whatever _those_ are.

He’s only just taken a sip of Mai Tai Mimic number three when he turns to the left and discovers something else alcohol can do for him.

“holy shit, your horns are _beautiful…”_

The minotaur sitting beside him jumps a little, like she’s startled.

“O-oh…ah, thank you,” she says. “I…that’s…that’s really nice of you to say.”

“they are,” Papyrus tells her, because this is an obvious fact. “they’re so _shiny_ …d’you polish them?”

“Ha! Uh, no, not…not really… They’re just…like that.”

Papyrus must look suitably impressed by this, because she pauses.

“I… You really like them?”

“’course, they’re gorgeous.”

“……You don’t… You don’t think they’re too…” She looks down, like she’s shy. “Too bull-ish?”

Papyrus doesn’t remember half of what he says to her in response, that night.

He doesn’t remember taking her by the hand and leaning in to look her _very_ seriously in her deep, dark, soulful eyes.

He doesn’t remember waxing poetic to her about the delicate curve of her horns, the elegant points, their lovely color and sheen that made them gleam like _gold_ in the dim light of the bar.

He doesn’t even remember her _name._

But he does remember going home with her that night.

And everything that happened after.

It ends up being a night of many firsts for Papyrus…

But hardly _any_ lasts.

-

Papyrus makes a habit of it.

The hooking up.

It’s not as…romantic as anything he’d ever hoped for himself, to be sure.

It’s not…tender intimacy, and long conversations, and real connection…

It’s not love.

But it _is_ touch.

It _is_ stroking and kissing and warmth and ~~most of the time~~ no pain, and whenever Papyrus is desperate enough to seek it; drunk enough to let himself pretend…

It _feels_ like love.

Close enough to it.

…as close as he can probably ever hope to _get_ down here, where the real thing seems to only come to a lucky few who can find it and an even _luckier_ few that can hold onto it.

Papyrus can’t remember the last time he genuinely believed he’d be one of those people.

But that just makes the times when he can fake it even more valuable.

Sans only ever says one thing about Papyrus’ new pastime, catching him stumbling home early in the morning, rumpled and smelling like booze and some guy’s cologne.

“BE CAREFUL.”

“sorry,” Papyrus muttered, thinking at first maybe he was too loud coming in or knocked something over, but his brother grabs him by the arm before he can get by.

“NO,” Sans says, looking at him _very_ seriously. “BE _CAREFUL._ MONSTERS ARE ALL THE SAME, IN IT FOR THEMSELVES. DON’T LET IT HURT YOU WHEN NOBODY STAYS.”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep.

Maybe it’s the oncoming hangover.

Maybe it’s the years of being miserable and scared and _useless_ and finally finding something that distracted him from it all and made him feel _good_ for once, and knowing even _that_ isn’t really real.

Papyrus jerks his arm out of Sans’ grip, angrily shoving right past him with the most clipped, “whatever,” he’s ever muttered in his life.

Sans doesn’t stop him again, or try to push the issue.

A bleary-socketed glance at the clock when he makes it up to his room shows that Sans has to be getting to work anyway, and Papyrus snorts as he flops onto his bed.

Of _course_ Sans would say something like that.

All he _does_ is work and FIGHT and look after Papyrus—no partners, no friends, a piss-poor excuse for a family…

Of course _he_ would say that nobody stays, when he never lets anybody in, in the first place.

Sans is a cynic.

He’s a proud _pessimist_ , too goddamn _arrogant_ to admit that he’s probably _just_ as lonely and miserable as…

………

The guilt hits before Papyrus can even finish the uncharitable thought.

He buries his face in a pillow and hopes to pass out quickly.

He doesn’t want to spend the morning conscious enough to know what a piss-poor excuse for a brother he really is, after all.

-

~~Sans is right, of course.~~

~~It’s a bandage at the best of times.~~

~~Papyrus loses track of all his partners who never call again, who act like it never happened, who aren’t as…kind…as he’d hoped they’d be.~~

~~This prison they all live in is shit, it makes _everyone_ so…mad, and miserable, and…~~

~~And _monstrous._~~

~~Papyrus hates the Underground, he _hates_ it, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can _live_ like this.~~

-

A human falls.

The seventh.

_The last one._

Everything happens _so_ fast for awhile, but before Papyrus knows it, monsters are free.

It’s not the way anyone _pictured_ it would happen, but…

Something about getting to stand up on the _Surface,_ where no monster had tread for _centuries,_ makes the means feel completely, utterly irrelevant.

The air smells different, fresher.

The sky is full of _colors,_ more than even he can name.

The sun is…

The _sun_ is…

Papyrus isn’t too proud to admit it: he cries, too overwhelmed by how _beautiful_ it is to do anything else.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like there’s hope for the future and he grips his brother by the shoulder, smiling widely even as the tears drip down his skull.

Freedom.

Peace.

_A chance._

They have a chance to be ‘good’ now, and no longer just settle for ‘fine.’

 _This_ is the turning point, Papyrus is _sure_ of it.

-

~~If he’d been watching his brother in that One Grand Moment instead of the sky, he might’ve managed his expectations a little better.~~

~~Standing up there on the Surface, on the precipice of untold change, the upending of everything he’s spent years to master and manipulate, _Sans’_ expression is nothing less than ‘lost.’~~

-

Papyrus is living.

Human society—its laws and rules and norms—is so different than the bare minimum that fear of the Royal Guard and the Empress were able to enforce amongst the angry, scared, and hurting populace of the Underground.

It’s actually _safe_ here, or at least it feels that way for Papyrus, whose intimidating build and default scary face work just as well up here as they did down there, if not even _better._

It no longer matters if people he encounters might not know his reputation, or his brother’s, because nobody will bother him as long as he keeps to himself and doesn’t cause any trouble—and he’s _great_ at both of those things.

He takes walks.

He wanders around shops.

He discovers and falls in love with prepackaged snack cakes.

He tracks down Muffet’s new Surface location, and reconnects with Undyne on the human internet, and buys some new software and a _whole_ lot of copics when he figures out that people _pay_ for art here and he could actually be making a little money on the side.

Papyrus is _living._

Sans…

Well.

Papyrus can’t say that things are unequivocally _worse_ for his brother up here.

He’s seen _some_ good things.

He knows about the wine-tasting class Sans attended ‘JUST TO FILL IN A GAP IN MY SCHEDULE,’ and his ‘professional assessment’ of the Baja Blast they got later when they went out for tacos _had_ to have been the hardest either of them laughed in years.

He’s caught sight of Sans out on the porch of their new house, both early morning and late night, doing the same thing Papyrus is doing looking out the windows in the first place: watching the sunrise and the sunset, just because it’s there.

He even finds some wood shavings stuck in the carpet and a few lumpy, lopsided figurines in the trash (that he rescues), so he knows that Sans is trying that again.

All good things!

…But there’s a lot of bad things, too, _way_ more than Papyrus thinks there should be.

Sans has gotten a new job, something to do with numbers, but, “I DON’T DO PATROLS ANYMORE, I MIGHT AS WELL DO _SOMETHING_ WITH THE TIME—IT’S NOT AS IF WE COULDN’T USE THE MONEY.”

That would be fine…if Sans wasn’t _also_ still working full-time as Captain of the Royal Guard.

“IT’S FINE,” he says dismissively when Papyrus raises concern. “I MOSTLY JUST DO PAPERWORK THESE DAYS. PAPERWORK, POLITICS, AND PUBLIC APPEARANCES. HEHEH, MORE PARANOIA THAN PUGILISM, HEHEHEH…”

Which of course…is not the _lowest_ stress thing Sans could be doing right now, and it’s _showing._

Papyrus’ unease with the whole situation only grows the more he watches Sans get sick— _working_ himself sick—more than he _ever_ did, even _Underground_ when the stakes were literally life and death.

It’s not right.

He knows in his bones that this isn’t right, or fair, and it can’t possibly end well if Sans keeps going like this, doing…doing _everything,_ all the time, for _both_ of them.

And Papyrus still isn’t a very good brother.

If he were, he’d be helping.

He’d be cooking dinner so Sans wouldn’t have to do it the second he got home or else have to eat junk food or takeout all the time.

He’d be tidying up the house so Sans wouldn’t go out of his way to do it on his days off instead of _actually_ taking the day off.

He’d…

He’d be _doing something!_

Anything!

But he isn’t.

Papyrus isn’t helping because he doesn’t know how—he doesn’t even know how to do _laundry_ by himself, for fuck’s sake!—and it’s not right.

He’s a grown skeleton, not a babybones, and he’d _never_ forgive himself if he let his martyring workaholic of a brother _kill_ himself like this just because _he_ was too scared to figure out some basic shit on his own.

The only obstacle is Sans himself, too stubborn and bullheaded to let Papyrus learn.

“DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT THAT.”

“NO, NO, GIVE IT TO ME, I’LL HANDLE IT.”

“OH, JUST LET ME DO IT, IT’LL BE FASTER.”

Papyrus is…regrettably…stuck.

He can’t see any way out of his own ~~uselessness~~ incompetence as long as Sans is around, and it’s not like he can fix that.

They live in the same damn _house_ , after all.

………

And then, one day, their ‘not mandatory but strongly encouraged’ therapist says two little words.

‘Trial separation.’

Papyrus’ kneejerk reaction is uncertainty.

Fear.

He’s never _been_ apart from his brother before, not in any way that really mattered, and the thought alone is…

It’s _scary._

But…

He looks over at Sans, sneering insults at Dirk, calling him a hack and an idiot and just about every name in the book.

There’s dark shadows beneath his eye-sockets from how little or how poorly he’s been sleeping.

His shoulders are tensed, held almost painfully tight, and Papyrus can’t remember the last time he’s seen them otherwise.

Sans is even physically angling himself _between_ Papyrus and Dirk, just like all those years ago at the Dump; like a murderous scavenger and a therapist saying something he didn’t like were the same kind of threat to his naïve, helpless, baby brother.

And in that moment, Papyrus thinks he knows what he has to do.

“…IDICULOUS, I DON’T KNOW _WHERE_ Y—”

“okay. yeah, let’s try it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when I said other chapters wouldn't be as long as the first one? Apparently what I meant by that is that they'd be more than _twice_ as long. What was supposed to be 'Papyrus' Unfortunate Childhoood' as a companion piece to 'Sans' Unfortunate Childhood' last chapter kind of...evolved.
> 
> I guess it's now become something more like, 'Everything Else, As Told By Papyrus' lol
> 
> This time, I _mean_ it when I say the other chapters won't be as long as this one because I literally cannot imagine anything I have planned expanding as much as this one did, but I hope this came out well! In spite of how long it took and how big it got, I had a lot of fun exploring everything I got to explore in this one! :D


	3. Darned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place post-Dirty Laundry
> 
> TW: mentions of violence, child abuse/neglect, violence, death, self-harm

Her name is Bridget Wilson, neé Cleary.

She is sixty-three years old, both parents deceased and only one younger sister, living abroad, to call immediate family. Lily Cleary calls her from their home country of Ireland weekly, like clockwork, and each call lasts upwards of an hour.

In her late twenties, Bridget was married to one Geoffrey Wilson, an utterly unremarkable man who passed of unspecified causes just shy of their ten-year anniversary, leaving all earthly possessions to his wife—now widow. She never remarried and has made no significant attempts to seek a romantic relationship since.

Instead, Mrs. Wilson pursued a belated education and apparently found her new passion there.

A master’s in psychology, completion of a PsyD program, above and beyond the required hours of supervised practice until she became licensed and certified to practice on her own in Ebott; diligent about all renewals and reeducation as mandated by the state…

Dr. Wilson takes her field of psychotherapy quite seriously, it seems, and commentary from past patients of hers is nothing shy of _glowing._

By all accounts, she is a professional: dedicated to her work, respectful yet straightforward, and always with her client’s interests in mind.

In short, she seems to be _exactly_ what Sans has been looking for.

And she is currently accepting new patients.

-

Even after all of his meticulous ~~stalking~~ fact-finding, there’s nothing _quite_ like really meeting someone to give Sans the best idea of who he’s dealing with.

Bridget Wilson is striking in person, to be sure, with far more presence than her photographs lent her.

Her face is weathered, too stern to be called ‘grandmotherly’ but bearing laugh lines and crow’s feet all the same, wholly untouched by cosmetics or concealer. Her hair, cropped short, is unapologetically gray, with no pretense of reclaiming its youthful color. Her attire is the very picture of business casual, without flair save for a complementary necklace and a Claddagh ring on her finger.

Spartan. Honest. A straight-shooter.

Sans files these assessments away in his mind for later perusal as the doctor reaches out a hand to him.

“Good morning, Captain Serif,” she greets him pleasantly. The lilt of her accent is more pronounced than it had been over the phone, faint but present. “It’s a pleasure to meet you face to face.”

Sans shakes her hand, returning her greeting.

“LIKEWISE, DR. WILSON,” he says with a polite smile.

Polite but _not_ strained, an important distinction: she _had_ greeted him by his title, after all.

The _other one_ had a…special…way of saying ‘captain,’ flippant and dismissive and almost _jokingly,_ like his _years_ of dust, sweat, and danger had no more weight than that of a _cotton ball._

Dr. Wilson said it respectfully, perhaps just mindful of their lack of familiarity but…

Sans doesn’t think so.

He feels the firmness of her handshake, sees no nonsense in her eyes, and files away another assessment.

(An older woman, left alone in a country not her own, choosing to stay and make her own way as a professional in the medical field…)

(Sans presumes she knows a thing or two about earning one’s rank; about clawing one’s way up.)

………

It’s too early to _call_ anything, but as first impressions go…

_SO FAR, SO GOOD._

Nothing noteworthy is discussed as Dr. Wilson ushers him into her office—how he found the place, what the weather was like, simple pleasantries—and Sans performs a quick visual scan of his surroundings.

The room is small, but with appropriate lighting and furnishings such that it felt cozy instead of cramped. There are several options for seating and a clear path to the door, which may or may not have been a strategic decision to put clients (him) at ease, but Sans approves regardless of the intention.

The doctor takes a seat and gestures for him to do the same.

Sans obligingly sits.

“So,” begins Dr. Wilson, “I know we spoke a bit already over the phone, but we might as well go over it again, for perspective’s sake. What brings you here today, Captain?”

“YOU’RE A THERAPIST AND I’M SEEKING THERAPY,” Sans replies wryly. “MAKING AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU SEEMED THE MOST EXPEDIENT MEANS TO THAT END.”

Across from him, Bridget quirks a small smile, apparently catching and appreciating his humor.

Another mark in her favor, honestly.

“And that’s all?”

“MORE OR LESS. THOUGH,” Sans admits, “IT WAS…SUGGESTED TO ME THAT…THAT THIS SORT OF APPROACH COULD BE…BENEFICIAL.”

“Who suggested that?” Dr. Wilson wonders.

“MY BROTHER. AS WELL AS MY PARTNER. BOTH SEEM TO BELIEVE THAT… IT COULD BE GOOD FOR ME TO…TO OPEN UP, I SUPPOSE.”

There’s a noticeable pause.

Sans takes note of the woman’s expression, still a cool mask of professionalism but now with a hint of…

Displeasure?

Concern?

Perhaps some mix of the two.

It’s not until she speaks again, her tone admirably free of judgment, that Sans realizes why.

“You’re here on their account, then?”

“NO,” Sans says without hesitation. “I’M HERE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT. IT WAS A SUGGESTION, BUT ONE I’VE AGREED WITH. I AM NOT HERE TO SATISFY ANYONE ELSE.”

Another micro-expression—relief, this time—and before she can fully open her mouth to presumably apologize for assuming, Sans interjects.

“THANK YOU FOR ASKING, ACTUALLY. MY LAST FORAY INTO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF PSYCHOTHERAPY _WAS_ PURELY FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S BENEFIT AND THE EXPERIENCE WAS… _NOT_ ONE I’D CARE TO REPEAT.”

Dr. Wilson nods, accepting this.

“I’m sorry to hear that you had a negative experience, of course,” she offers, “but I’m glad that you left it, and that you’re seeking betterment of your own volition.”

“THANK YOU,” Sans says again. “I’VE DONE MY RESEARCH THIS TIME AROUND, LOOKING FOR SOMEONE MORE…EQUIPPED TO HANDLE MY LIFE EXPERIENCES. YOUR PATIENTS RECOMMEND YOU QUITE HIGHLY, DOCTOR.”

A large portion of Dr. Wilson’s client base, Sans knows, consists of soldiers who have seen active duty. Some are still serving and some have been discharged for a variety of medical, emotional, or behavioral reasons.

People who have seen and done some _awful_ things in the name of duty or survival…or neither.

People like Sans.

He wasn’t certain that the person who would know how to fix a mess like himself even _existed_ , but if there were anyone in a five-hundred mile radius who could at least be _familiar_ with most of the wreckage they were looking at, it would probably be this woman.

(Even as the thought crosses his mind, Sans can practically _hear_ a pair of familiar voices tickling at the back of his skull.)

(One sternly tells him that he doesn’t need to be ‘fixed,’ that he isn’t _broken._ The other sweetly murmurs that he’s better than he thinks he is, and even if he wasn’t, he would still be worthy of love.)

(…You two aren’t even _here_ and you’re _still_ forcing self-care shit on him, and if it didn’t make his soul feel so _warm_ in his chest, Sans would definitely probably be furious about it.)

“I’m flattered that you think we could be a good fit,” Bridget says, cutting into the sentimental direction of Sans’ thoughts. “Would you like to tell me a bit about yourself, then?”

 _NOT REALLY,_ is Sans’ first knee-jerk thought, which is both unhelpful and counterintuitive.

Out loud, he says, “ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR?”

Dr. Wilson half-shrugs.

“Anything you feel comfortable sharing. It’s our first session, so I’d most like to get to know you a bit and vice versa.”

“THE BRAIN-PICKING COMES LATER, I PRESUME?”

“The brain-picking comes not at all, I would guess.” Dr. Wilson looks thoughtful as she muses, “I don’t imagine a skeleton _has_ a brain for me to pick, though do correct me if I’m wrong.”

The humor is so dryly delivered that it takes Sans a moment to realize it had been there.

“…HEHEHEH, NO, I’M AFRAID NOT.” He reaches up, demonstratively rapping a knuckle against his skull to produce a hollow sound. “NO ORGANS, NOTHING BUT MAGIC CIRCULATING IN THERE.”

“Pity,” says the doctor, and he chuckles again.

Though fully aware that she’s likely intentionally trying to put him at ease, Sans doesn’t mind it.

Mostly because he would, very much, like to be more at ease right now and perhaps…isn’t, entirely.

This is different, than the other time.

There’s no dismissive, disinterested ‘professional’ here, no talkative, open-hearted brother to usher to the fore ~~to hide behind~~.

It’s just him…and her: someone _trained_ to pay attention to people, to pick up on patterns and defense mechanisms and deflective tendencies and there’s _no way to esc—_ ………

_NO._

Of course there’s a way to escape.

Sans can get up and leave at any time. He can just go and _never_ come back if he so chooses, because _he_ is the reason that he is here.

He chose this treatment option.

He picked this doctor.

He scheduled this appointment and kept it, because he saw how far his brother was able to come with just a _little_ support from you, and him, and a trained professional who actually knew what they were doing, and…

Sans wants that, too.

He wants to at least try it, a _real_ try, for himself, just… just to see if…

“I could go first,” Dr. Wilson offers, apparently noticing his silence. “It’s a bit of a broad question, admittedly. I could tell you a bit about myself and maybe give you an idea of where to start?”

“NO, I’M SORRY, I CAN GO FIRST.” Sans gives her an apologetic smile. “I WAS JUST THINKING.”

He was and he wasn’t, but in any case, he can certainly wait to hear a bunch of information he undoubtedly already knows.

The _sharing_ of _personal information_ would best be done now, before he manages to talk himself out of it.

“I’M…CAPTAIN OF THE ROYAL GUARD. I’VE SERVED FOR…HEH, TOO LONG, PROBABLY. …I’M THE ELDEST OF TWO. MY YOUNGER BROTHER, PAPYRUS, I MENTIONED HIM ALREADY. NO…NO PARENTS TO SPEAK OF, JUST……”

Sans chances a look at the doctor.

By her patiently listening expression at least, she doesn’t _seem_ to be ~~dangerously~~ excessively interested in anything he’s revealed so far.

He still quickly moves on to something else anyway, warding off the risk of a follow-up question.

“I’M IN A RELATIONSHIP, A ROMANTIC ONE.” Sans allows himself a small smile at the thought of you, though he doubts he could’ve held it back entirely as he said your name aloud. “HUMAN, OF COURSE, NOT THAT IT…NOT THAT IT _MATTERS_ , IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS.”

If Dr. Wilson has any negative feelings on interspecies relationships, Sans can’t see any of them in her face.

Which is good.

A test passed, but not the only one necessary.

Sans clears his nonexistent throat.

“OUR RELATIONSHIP IS POLYAMOROUS,” he says casually. “IT’S NOT OPEN, BUT SHE DOES HAVE A SECOND PARTNER, IN ADDITION TO MYSELF.”

Sans is attentive for even the slightest sign of disapproval or judgment in Bridget’s expression, but he finds none.

He keeps his gaze sharp but the rest of his demeanor as far from challenging as possible for the last bit.

“PAPYRUS AND I ARE QUITE FOND OF HER. VERY HAPPY TO HAVE HER IN OUR LIVES.”

“How long?”

“HOW LONG WHAT?”

“Oh, sorry, how long have you been seeing her?” Dr. Wilson asks. “Your partner?”

“AH. WELL, THERE’S TWO ANNIVERSARIES INVOLVED, WE DIDN’T… PAPYRUS IS GOING ON THE TWO-YEAR NOW, BUT SHE AND _I_ HAD OUR FIRST LAST MONTH.”

“Congratulations,” Dr. Wilson offers.

And she means it.

The easy sincerity Sans hears in her voice is the sort he’s found most people to be incapable of faking, so when she says it, he knows that it’s the same mannerly ‘congratulations’ she’d have given to any other sort of relationship that had passed such a milestone.

To a monster and monster pair, to a two-person commitment, or to any configuration different than one where two brothers had fallen totally, completely, irrevocably for the same human and been lucky enough that she loved them both in return.

………

Sans is getting sentimental again.

He thanks Dr. Wilson for the ‘congratulations’ with no small amount of internal relief.

As dealbreakers go, an inability to accept his relationship would have been a very _big_ one, but she had accepted it well—without scorn or judgment or anything negative.

…or.

Anything at all, really.

………

_HMM…_

“HAPPY THINGS ASIDE,” Sans continues slowly, “I WOULD SAY THAT I, PERSONALLY, AM SEEKING THERAPEUTIC INTERVENTION BECAUSE OF…SOME OF THE DARKER PARTS, OF MY LIFE. I’M SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE THE SORTS OF THINGS ONE MIGHT BE WITNESS TO, LIVING UNDERGROUND. TO SAY NOTHING OF LIVING UNDERGROUND IN SERVICE TO THE CROWN.”

“I can imagine,” Dr. Wilson echoes.

“IN THE INTEREST OF FULL DISCLOSURE, I SHOULD PROBABLY SAY THAT I’VE FOUGHT, AND KILLED, AND INFLICTED ARGUABLY UNNECESSARY PAIN ON OTHERS.” Sans laces his gloved fingers in his lap. “I WAS ONCE CENSURED BY THE EMPRESS HERSELF FOR AN INCIDENT OF THE LATTER, THOUGH ONLY THE ONCE.”

Dr. Wilson doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the admittance.

Her expression remains attentive yet neutral, so perfectly neither negative or positive, and Sans can’t help but think…

Does it genuinely _not_ bother her to know, with certainty over assumption, that she is in the presence of a dangerous person?

Is she _truly_ so unaffected to be alone with a self-confessed perpetrator of violent and cruel acts?

Or is her veneer of professionalism simply strong enough, _opaque_ enough to obscure her feelings?

(And one very nasty part of Sans’ mind, marinated for _decades_ in paranoia, analysis, and self-protection, starts to wonder, too…)

(What would _break_ that veneer?)

“…I JOINED THE GUARD AT FIFTEEN,” Sans says, so abruptly as to startle himself. “WELL. _ALMOST_ FIFTEEN, ANYWAY. I LIED ABOUT MY AGE, OBVIOUSLY, BUT I GOT AWAY WITH IT.”

He’s…not sure why he volunteered that.

Or why he opens his mouth again, to volunteer even _more._

“I NEEDED THE INCOME, AND THE PROTECTION. TO SUPPORT MY BROTHER. NO OTHER FAMILY, YOU KNOW, I THINK I MENTIONED THAT, AND SQUATTING IN CONDEMNED BUILDINGS AND STEALING JUST ENOUGH GOLD AND FOOD TO GET BY WASN’T REALLY WORKING FOR ME.”

Bridget has no comment on this.

Either she doesn’t know what to say, or is just pointedly saying nothing at all, and somehow…

Somehow, that only compels Sans to keep going.

“ACTUALLY,” he admits, beginning to have an inkling of what he’s trying to do, “I DON’T KNOW IF THAT’S TRUE. THE PART ABOUT ENLISTING AT FOURTEEN, I MEAN. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW OLD I WAS, OR AM. I WASN’T ACTUALLY BORN, IS THE PROBLEM. I WAS CREATED. IN A LABORATORY. BY THE SORT OF MAN YOU COULD PROBABLY APTLY CALL A ‘MAD SCIENTIST.’”

Sans is trying to shock her.

He knows, the more he speaks, that that’s _exactly_ what he’s doing—pushing the boundaries, stretching credulity, trying to force a reaction and see just where this woman’s line is.

Twisting the concept of ‘vulnerability’ so far out of shape as to become a shield, or maybe even a sword.

But Bridget is too tough, or too savvy to crack so easily.

So Sans can’t help but keep pushing.

“MY AGING WAS ACCELERATED, ARTIFICIALLY,” he tells her. “HE DIDN’T WANT TO DEAL WITH AN INFANT, MY CREATOR, SO HE MADE A FIVE-YEAR-OLD NEWBORN INSTEAD AND UPLOADED AS MUCH INFORMATION INTO MY HEAD AS HE THOUGHT MIGHT BE IMPORTANT, SO AS NOT TO NEED TO BOTHER WITH THE INCONVENIENCE OF TEACHING ME ANYTHING IF HE COULD GET AWAY WITH IT.”

It’s the truth, of course, as unbelievable as it sounds, but delivered so frankly; so baldly that it undoubtedly seems _insane._

Dr. Wilson is still listening intently, patiently…

…and very much _not_ as if she believes the skeleton across from her is totally unhinged.

Which is fine.

Sans may not have _crazier_ to throw at her, but he certainly has _worse._

“MY BROTHER WAS MADE AS A REPLACEMENT FOR ME. I SPENT HIS ENTIRE GESTATIONAL PERIOD WONDERING HOW I WOULD BE DISPOSED OF WHEN HE WAS FINISHED. …EXCEPT OF COURSE, I WASN’T—HEH, OUR ‘FATHER’ WAS NO SUCH THING AND _SOMEONE_ WAS NEEDED TO PICK UP THE SLACK FOR WHAT HE COULDN’T BE BOTHERED WITH.”

The creak of the old, worn leather of Sans’ gloves seems to echo the tension he feels in his bones trying to keep perfectly still in his chair.

His soul is thrumming oddly in his chest, an almost _feral_ feeling taking root there to know how _freely_ he’s spilling all of this, truths he never told to _anyone_ in full before—not even Papyrus, not even _you_ —for something so petty and small as getting a _reaction_ from a near-stranger.

But the floodgates are open, for better or worse.

There’s no stopping it now.

“I WAS AN _EXPERIMENT_ TO HIM, BEFORE PAPYRUS. A FUN LITTLE _SCIENCE PROJECT._ NODES AND LAB TABLES AND MEDICAL RESTRAINTS—YOU NAME IT, I’M SURE HE TRIED IT AT SOME POINT. …THE PUT-DOWNS AND POWER PLAYS WERE A WHOLE _OTHER_ KIND OF BULLSHIT,” Sans snarls, apparently more angry still than he thought, even so much later.

He shakes his head, snorting dismissively.

“HONESTLY, MY _ONLY_ SECOND THOUGHT ABOUT _KILLING_ HIM BEFORE HE COULD DO THE SAME TO MY BROTHER WAS IF I COULD GET _AWAY_ WITH IT. AND I DID. I KILLED HIM AND HE WASN’T EVEN THE FIRST. _OR_ THE LAST.”

Sans breathes deeply, trying to force himself to some semblance of calm.

It doesn’t last when he looks up into the placid, open expression of Dr. Wilson, coolly waiting to see if he has any more to say.

A spike of misplaced anger makes him scowl.

“WELL?” he demands.

“‘Well’ what?” Bridget inquires.

“YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY ABOUT ALL THAT?” Sans prods. “NO THOUGHTS OR FEELINGS ON ‘A BIT ABOUT ME’?”

“I think that was a thorough primer,” she says after a moment of thought. “I think that you’ve been through a great many unpleasant experiences, and I’m sorry that you have. And while it’s not really my place to comment or assess anything so early in our relationship, if you need some form of validation…I’m sure you knew what you were doing.”

“………”

Sans sits with the statement for a moment, processing it.

‘Knew what he was doing.’

‘ _Knew_ what he was doing…’

…

Sans can’t be blamed for the bolt of rude laughter that bubbles up out of him.

“NO, I DIDN’T,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “OF COURSE I _FUCKING_ DIDN’T, I WAS A _CHILD,_ I HAD NO—”

His teeth snap shut with an audible click.

Suddenly, in Bridget’s dark eyes, Sans can see it.

A sly glint.

And he begins to understand…how thoroughly _outfoxed_ he’s just been.

“YOU,” he says. And then, after better gathering his thoughts, “YOU GOT ME MONOLOGUING.”

By simply sitting there and not reacting, she got him to _talk_ and _share_ and even almost _tricked_ him into absolving himself of…something.

The wild, pent-up feeling in his chest is beginning to evaporate as realization dawns, and as it goes, something else is taking its place.

It feels like respect.

“YOU’RE GOOD,” he says at length.

Dr. Wilson smiles.

“Thank you,” she says with a dip of her head, not pretending not to know what he’s talking about. “But I did mean what I said. It’s not my place nor my prerogative to pass any kind of judgment on what you choose to share in these sessions, if there are to be others after this. I’m here to listen to what you say, and to help you verbalize and understand your feelings. Maybe even how they impact your behaviors and how to work on things you’d like to change, if that’s in the cards for you.”

Her posture straightens a bit, and her eyes meet his.

“If you _want_ to be assessed,” she tells Sans, “from just the CliffsNotes of what you’ve told me… I can only say that it seems to me like you’ve got a lot of things that you’d like to talk about.”

Sans huffs out a sigh, a long, slow exhale as he sinks a little deeper into his chair.

“…YES,” he concedes. “I DO. _STARS,_ I DO.”

That was exactly why he’d come here, wasn’t it?

Because he wanted to talk.

Because he was _ready_ to.

Because he _barely_ had, about anything, since he was a _babybones,_ and there were so many secrets ~~and so much pain~~ stuffed away inside of him and he was just so _tired_ of lugging it all around.

This had just been a long time coming.

“SO…WHAT NEXT?” Sans asks.

“I could take my turn,” Dr. Wilson proposes, “tell you a bit about myself. I’m quite boring, so it might not be as exciting as your go, but…”

She trails off, but Sans senses a different clause at the end of her sentence, unspoken.

“OR?”

“Or…whatever you want. This is your show, Captain, I’m just the peanut gallery.”

Despite himself, Sans quirks a small grin.

“CALL ME ‘SANS,’” he offers. “I’VE JUST REALIZED I THAT RESENT MY ‘FATHER’ A LOT MORE THAN I THOUGHT I STILL DID, AND I THINK I COULD STAND TO VENT ABOUT HIM A LITTLE MORE. IF YOU’RE GOING TO SIT THROUGH THAT, THE LEAST I COULD DO IS LET YOU USE MY NAME.”

“Sans, then,” she says. “You can call me Bridget if you like.”

“BRIDGET, THEN.”

The doctor smiles, warm and agreeable.

“Now, let’s hear about this father of yours. He sounds like a cunt.”

Surprised by the vulgarity, Sans bursts out laughing.

It’s perhaps still too early to call it, but…

He’s fairly sure that his first appointment with Dr. Wilson isn’t going to be his last.

-

It’s not.

“I HAVE FULFILLED THE TERMS OF OUR AGREEMENT.”

“Oh, excellent! Let’s see it.”

“I DON’T RECALL _THAT_ BEING PART OF SAID AGREEMENT.”

Dr. Wilson laughs.

“How am I to know you actually did it if you won’t let me see it?”

“YOU _COULD_ PRESUME GOOD FAITH.”

 _“Should_ I?”

Sans smirks.

“NEVER.”

So saying, he reaches into his pocket, fingers curling around the object inside.

“IT’S LITTLE,” he feels the need to preface. “AND IT’S NOT…I DON’T KNOW IF I’VE DONE _BETTER_ , BUT I DON’T KNOW IF I’D SAY IT’S EVEN OF MY USUAL—”

“I’m not grading you,” Bridget pointedly reminds him. “Nothing happens if it’s not perfect.”

Sans huffs, rolling his eye-lights.

But out comes his palm-sized carving anyway, for the doctor’s viewing pleasure.

… _Dis_ pleasure, probably.

As usual, as with _all_ of the products of his unfortunate whittling hobby, Sans mostly hates the thing by now.

Its every flaw seems _garishly_ obvious to him here, in the well-lit office and _especially_ under Bridget’s assessing gaze: that rough edge there, that too abrupt slope, the _divot_ where his knife slipped just a quarter of an inch because a pan fell in the kitchen downstairs and he hadn’t bothered to go back over it and try to fix it…

He’d given his word, though, that he would bring something to show her one of these days instead of dumping it straight in the garbage, and much as it galls him sometimes, Sans _tries_ to be a skeleton of his word.

…but he’s not happy about it.

He doesn’t _like_ it, it’s _not_ what it’s supposed to be, it _doesn’t_ look the way he wanted and it’s—

“Oh, that’s a lovely little deer!”

Yes, it’s a _lovely little—_ ………

Wait, no.

“I’M SURPRISED YOU COULD EVEN GUESS WHAT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE,” Sans opines.

“Well, of course,” says Bridget. “What else _could_ it be?”

Sans critically eyes his own creation.

“AN EMACIATED HORSE,” he suggests. “…PERHAPS A MOOSE THAT’S BEEN IN A HORRIFIC ACCIDENT.”

Dr. Wilson scoffs a bit.

“No, she’s a dainty little thing. That’s all deer, I can tell.”

She holds out her hand, an unspoken request for said deer.

Sans hesitates, not really liking the idea of her seeing it _closer_ …

But he forces the hesitation back, and hands it over.

Bridget handles the thing he gives her with far more care than _he_ believes it’s worth as she turns it this way and that, looking it over better.

He watches her do so, sitting rigidly in his chair and wondering what she’ll have to say about after a second and more thorough assessment.

“I like it.”

“……WHY?” Sans can’t help but ask.

“Well, why _don’t_ you like it?” she asks in return.

The question makes Sans frown.

“I… IT’S…”

He pauses, trying to put the right words to his gut-feeling of dislike.

“IT’S…MISTAKES,” he haltingly settles on. “IT’S _ALL_ MISTAKES. I SEE…ALL THE PARTS I DID BADLY, OR THAT I COULDN’T DO, AND IT’S…”

Well.

He and Bridget had already had a _lovely_ conversation a few sessions back about perfectionism, and tying feelings of worth and self to results and how well that tended to _not_ work out for anyone, ever, and he doesn’t particularly want to rehash all _that._

So he _doesn’t_ say that the mistakes feel like a reflection of himself, and instead settles on an adjacent truth.

“I WISH I WERE BETTER AT THIS.”

Bridget nods, considering what he’d said.

(By the reserved expression on her face, she’s considering what he _hadn’t_ said, too, so his clever obfuscation was for naught, damn it all.)

“You see mistakes,” she says slowly, “but all I see is a deer.”

Sans isn’t sure what to say to that, but she’s not done yet.

“You said you wish you were better. But how do you know you aren’t?”

“…I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Sans reluctantly admits.

“How do you know you aren’t better?” Bridget leans forward, setting the carving onto the table. “What are you _comparing_ this to? Your other works? Someone else’s? The idea you had in your head?”

Sans opens his mouth to reply, only to close it when he realizes…he’s not really sure.

…All of the above, possibly.

He looks at the deer between them, trying to somehow view it totally objectively.

………

He fails.

But it _is_ food for thought, and Sans isn’t done thinking about it; not by a longshot.

Bridget knows him well enough by now not to take his extended silence as dismissal, but she does pivot a bit trying to get him to speak his thoughts out loud again.

“Why did you make this?”

A sly ‘BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME TO’ is on the tip of his metaphorical tongue, but Sans does know she doesn’t actually mean this deer _specifically._

She means his carvings in general, _all_ of them, from the moment he first took the little knife his baby brother had found for him and brought its edge to the mildew-rotted chunk of broken floorboard while he stared out the window with extinguished eye-lights.

Sans’ past attempts… the clumsy blobs and basic shapes…the attempts at figures, monster and animal alike…

Why had he made them?

He’d hated them all at the end, uniformly, but _while_ he was making them, when he hadn’t thought at all of what they should look like or how he had messed them up…

They were…

He’d felt…

“IT’S…MEDITATIVE,” Sans concludes. “SOMETHING TO KEEP MY HANDS BUSY, WITHOUT HAVING TO…SPEND TOO MUCH ATTENTION, I SUPPOSE. STAY PRODUCTIVE.”

“Do you like it?”

The sheer simplicity of the question stuns him for half a moment, if only for the fact that he _never_ thought to ask it of himself.

“…YES,” Sans decides. “I DO.”

Even if he thinks he could ~~should~~ be better, even if the results aren’t perfect, even if he feels compelled to throw them all away in the end…

~~He thinks he regrets that sometimes, however foolish that is. Maybe he really would be able to tell if he was getting any better, if he had something to compare to.~~

Sans likes whittling.

That feels important.

And the subtle smile playing on Dr. Wilson’s lips as she says, “That’s what matters,” has all the encouragement of an approving pat on the head.

“But,” she adds after a beat, “if you truly _must_ be better _than_ someone, I have also fulfilled the terms of our agreement.”

That perks Sans right up.

“LET’S SEE IT,” he eagerly invites.

Reaching for her purse, the doctor digs around in it a bit before producing her end of the bargain, setting it on the table alongside Sans’ deer.

“…THAT’S…A LOVELY…ER—”

“It was meant to be a penguin,” says Bridget primly, saving him the trouble of guessing. “This is what a _true_ novice’s work looks like. If you forget _everything_ else I’ve said, remember that.”

Sans looks at it.

“THAT SHOULD BE HARD TO FORGET,” he agrees. “IT LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING…TOO INAPPROPRIATE TO NAME IN POLITE COMPANY SUCH AS THIS.”

Bridget gives him a Look.

“Need I remind you that I called your father a ‘cunt’ in our first session?” she wonders.

True, “BUT WERE YOU _WRONG?”_

 _“I_ don’t think so, but I’d say we’re long past the point of impolite language, in any case.”

“THEN IN THAT CASE, I’D SAY IT LOOKS LIKE A MARITAL AID. THE SORT TO BE INSERTED RECTALLY.”

“Hmm. So it looks like a butt-plug to you, as well, then? Interesting.”

Sans doesn’t know if she’s shown the ‘penguin’ to other people or if she simply came to the same conclusion for herself, but her perfectly straight delivery makes him laugh anyway.

When their time is up, Sans takes his deer back into his pocket with…perhaps a little more respect than when he’d brought it out, and when he gets back home, it _doesn’t_ go into the trash.

It’s not much, but that feels important, too.

-

“SO I’M RUNNING FOR TREASURER OF THE LOCAL HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION,” Sans says on another occasion.

Bridget’s eyebrows shoot up, but otherwise her expression stays neutral.

“That’s exciting news,” she replies conservatively. “What brought this on?”

“A DEEP, ABIDING PASSION FOR THE WELFARE AND PRIDE OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD?”

“No.”

“HEHEHEH… YOU’RE RIGHT, BUT IT’S A LONG STORY.”

“I’ve got time,” says Bridget.

“I PAY YOU TO HAVE TIME,” Sans retorts.

“Yes,” she agrees, “that’s how this works.”

Which is fair.

“WELL, OUT OF RESPECT FOR YOUR TIME, I’M SURE I CAN CONDENSE IT—I’M WAGING WAR ON THE SECRETARY AND THIS IS THE MOST EFFICIENT WAY TO MAKE HER LIFE MISERABLE AND DESTROY ALL THAT SHE HOLDS DEAR.”

Bridget’s eyebrows are inching back up again, higher with every word.

“…Perhaps you could _un_ -condense it a bit?” she requests.

Which is, again, fair.

“I RECEIVED A FINE RECENTLY,” he explains. “OVER THE HEIGHT OF MY MAILBOX. TWO INCHES TOO SHORT, APPARENTLY, PER THE BYLAWS AND REGULATIONS OR SOME OTHER SUCH BULLSHIT. I IMAGINE IT’S BEEN TOO SHORT SINCE WE MOVED IN BACK IN 20XX.”

A familiar shrewd glint is entering Dr. Wilson’s eyes, and Sans knows she’s beginning to catch on.

“So why is the citation only coming now?”

“I CAN ONLY SPECULATE,” Sans says. “BUT IN MY SPECULATION, IT OCCURRED TO ME THAT THE FINE CORRELATED _VERY_ CLOSELY ON THE HEELS OF A BARBECUE MY FAMILY AND I ATTENDED, WHERE A CERTAIN LADY MADE _QUITE_ A SOUR FACE WHEN SHE ASKED MY PARTNER WHICH BROTHER WAS HERS AND RECEIVED AN ANSWER.”

“And that lady was the secretary,” Dr. Wilson concludes.

“ELLEN,” Sans agrees. “…BUT I’M NOT AN UNREASONABLE MAN, BRIDGET. I LIKE GAMES. IF SHE WANTS TO PLAY GAMES, I’M HAPPY TO BE HER OPPONENT.”

“And becoming Treasurer of the HOA is…?”

“STEP ONE. I WON’T BORE YOU WITH ALL THE INTERMEDIATE STEPS, BUT I INTEND TO INFILTRATE AND MAKE HER LIFE AS _UNPLEASANT_ AS POSSIBLE BY STRANGLING HER TO DEATH WITH HER OWN RED TAPE. …METAPHORICALLY, OF COURSE.”

“Of course,” Bridget echoes.

“I’VE ALREADY BEGUN KEEPING RECORDS, BUILDING EVIDENCE AND SUCH…”

He can’t be sure until he gets a good look at the HOA’s accounting—just another reason to gain access to their inner circle—but based on the mismatch between Ellen and her husband’s finances and some of their luxury purchases, he suspects at least a _bit_ of embezzlement of community funds to be going on.

He’s already _certain_ that she’s committed mail fraud, or some variant of the crime. The citation letter left in his (“too short”) mailbox was _not_ properly post-marked, and written testimonials collected from other neighbors confirms Ellen’s tendency to just print up fines and threatening letters and hand-deliver them into peoples’ boxes as the mood strikes her.

It would be the cherry on top of all this to get her indicted for a federal crime, but he isn’t sure if what he has would be enough for that, so the evidence gathering on at _least_ the HOA-related infractions continues.

You’ve taken to looking at him like he’s mildly insane when he shortcuts to the window at _precisely_ 6AM on the dot to take photographs of Ellen’s incorrectly oriented trash bins, and Papyrus had laughed for _ten minutes_ when Sans sent him to a home improvement store to steal paint swatches over a suspicion that Ellen’s new addition had been painted ‘Simply White’ and _not_ the approved shade of ‘White Dove,’ but Sans doesn’t care.

He has been mildly inconvenienced and personally disrespected.

“IT’S WAR NOW.”

“Well,” says Bridget at length. “It’s good to have hobbies. How’s the campaign going?”

Sans’ answering grin is razor sharp.

 _“VERY_ WELL. I’M RUNNING ON THE PROMISE OF AN HOA BY THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE.”

“By which you mean…?”

“I _MAY_ HAVE INTIMATED TO A FEW THAT I INTEND TO DISMANTLE THE ESTABLISHMENT ALTOGETHER FROM THE INSIDE OUT. I _HOPE_ THEY HAVEN’T SPREAD THAT TO ANY OTHER CONSTITUENTS WHO MIGHT NOT OTHERWISE SHOW UP TO THE BOARD MEETING WHEN THE ELECTION WILL BE TAKING PLACE, THOUGH…”

Bridget can hide it all she likes, but Sans can tell she’s grinning, too.

“Definitely looking forward to hearing the outcome of that one,” she says.

“ME TOO. I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED.”

-

“You’re not wearing your gloves today.”

Sans blinks, pausing mid-gesture and only just resisting the self-conscious urge to tuck his bare phalanges out of sight.

“I…YES. I’M…I’VE BEEN TRYING TO…DO THAT MORE.”

“You don’t have to,” says Dr. Wilson. “If you feel more comfortable wearing certain things, you don’t have to force yourself to—”

“NO, THAT’S NOT… I’M NOT FORCING MYSELF, I’M…” Sans shakes his head a little. “I’M JUST BREAKING A HABIT. I DON’T NEED THEM, ANYMORE.”

“And you did before?”

“YES.”

Sans doesn’t particularly want to explain.

He can see, preemptively, the direction of the conversation that’s going to follow, and he can hear the notes of a lecture he’s already heard _twice_ now…

But Bridget has stumbled onto something significant and he knows that she knows it and there’s no point prolonging the inevitable, really.

“MY GLOVES WERE NEVER COMFORT-RELATED. THEY SERVED A PURPOSE,” he says shortly. “THE TIPS WERE REINFORCED AROUND MY CLAWS SO THE POINTS WOULDN’T TEAR THROUGH AND I COULD STILL USE MY HANDS FOR…HAND-TYPE ACTIVITIES. WITHOUT BLUNTING THEIR EDGE.”

Bridget takes a moment to process this.

“So what changed?”

Sans looks down at his claws, eyeing their shape.

“I FIXED THEM.”

The blunted edges of his phalanges still look a little strange to him, honestly, _naked_ somehow with neither a casing of purple leather or a honed blade’s edge to protect them.

But it wasn’t a _bad_ strange, or at least…he didn’t think so.

Just new.

“How did you fix them?”

“HOW DO YOU RUIN ANY GOOD KNIFE?” Sans wonders rhetorically. “I’VE BEEN DOING MY WHITTLING BAREHANDED LATELY. NOTHING QUITE LIKE WOOD TO TAKE THE EDGE OFF OF SOMETHING…”

“Did that hurt you?”

“NO WORSE THAN IT HURT TO SHARPEN THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE,” Sans quips.

 _That_ had hurt, ignoring the sting just to force his claws into a deadlier shape, rendering them numb for _days_ each of the few times he’d done it and had to wait for his magic to slowly trickle back in and restore sensation.

By comparison, blunting them had been easy, almost _painless_ ; a gradual, faint, arthritic sort of ache, easily ignored as he used his bare thumb to bore a hole in a pendant here or his pinky to detail a parabolic pattern on a picture frame there.

And then it had been over, practically before he even knew it.

…But Sans _had_ heard the delicacy of the doctor’s inquiry, the unspoken ‘is self-harm a concern here?’ and he was not so churlish as to ignore it.

“I’M DONE,” he says to her, hoping to assuage her concerns. “I’VE ALREADY TAKEN UP MY KNIFE AGAIN AND I HAVE BEEN CHASTISED _IN STEREO_ ABOUT DOING STUPID THINGS THAT HURT ME, BUT IT…IT WAS NEVER ABOUT THAT.”

Sans can’t quite tell if Bridget believes that or not, but she’s at least willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“What _was_ it about?”

Sans’ eye-lights fall to his claws again.

He folds them in his lap, neatly slotting them against each other.

Their curve is still wicked, the tips pointed, and if he _really_ dug in, he could still do some damage with them…

But they weren’t…

They were just…

“…I WANTED HANDS AGAIN.”

Which makes very little sense, without the context of his thoughts, so Sans attempts to elaborate for the doctor.

“WHEN… MY CLAWS, WHEN THEY WERE SHARP, THEY WEREN’T… THEY WERE _WEAPONS._ THEY HAD A PURPOSE, AND IT WAS…CUTTING. SLASHING. _HURTING._ THAT…WASN’T RIGHT ANYMORE, FOR ME. I…WANTED SOMETHING ELSE.”

“Hands,” Bridget helpfully fills in.

“YES. I…WAS TIRED OF…FEELING LIKE A PART OF MYSELF WAS…… LIKE I HAD _MADE_ A PART OF MYSELF BE…A WEAPON… WHEN I DIDN’T NEED IT ANYMORE. WHEN THERE ARE THINGS… _PEOPLE_ THAT I………”

Sans thinks of you, his soul sparking fondly in his chest.

You weren’t the _only_ reason, but you were a great example.

Someone he wanted to touch without fear, without hesitance or worry of causing you pain because of what he’d done to stay safe in the past; to stay alive long enough just to _meet_ you.

Long enough to outgrow the need for an always-drawn sword, and long enough to find a place with enough peace and enough safety that he could just…

Lay it down.

Be _done_ with it.

“I DID IT TO MYSELF,” Sans says of his claws, looking Dr. Wilson in the eye. “NOW I’VE UNDONE IT. THAT’S ALL.”

“…Alright,” Bridget says, assessing whatever she must be assessing of him. “But for the record, I don’t like the idea of you hurting yourself and I definitely don’t condone it.”

“I KNOW TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVE SAID _PRECISELY_ THE SAME THING IN MORE ANNOYED, EMOTIONAL, AND CONDESCENDING TONES, AND I LIVE WITH _BOTH._ I HAVE NO PROOF, BUT I’M FAIRLY SURE THAT IF THEY CATCH ME DOING ANYTHING STUPID AGAIN, THE PLAN IS TO CLUB ME OVER THE BACK OF THE SKULL AND CHAIN ME UP IN SOME SORT OF TERRIBLE SELF-CARE DUNGEON FROM WHICH I WILL NEVER ESCAPE. …I CAN PROVIDE THEIR NUMBERS IF YOU’D LIKE AN EMERGENCY CONTACT OR TWO, OR WOULD JUST LIKE TO JOIN IN THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST ME.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you.”

“OF COURSE, THE MORE THE MERRIER.”

-

When one finally lays down their sword, the shield isn’t likely far behind.

When Empress Toriel calls him to her chambers one day, Sans goes without protest or question, knowing precisely what she wants to discuss with him.

He can see it after all, there behind her.

Still, Sans holds to all proper protocol and presses his fist to the Delta Rune on his chest, bowing respectfully as if this were any other meeting.

“YOUR MAJESTY. HOW MAY I SERVE YOU?”

Toriel does not look particularly amused by his deference today.

“I would think,” she says, “you would know the answer to that, Captain.”

“I TRY NOT TO PRESUME YOUR INTENTIONS, YOUR MAJESTY.”

“That is a lie and you _will_ explain yourself.”

She flicks her paw backwards, a half-gesture at the single sheet of paper on her desk.

“MY LETTER OF RESIGNATION?”

Toriel frowns.

“So it is _not_ simply a joke in poor taste.”

“I ASSURE YOU,” Sans promises, “IT IS GENUINE.”

It had been perhaps one of the hardest things Sans had ever done, writing that letter. Harder still to actually submit it and to ignore the marrow-deep fear telling him to retract it, take it back, destroy it before the Empress could actually _see_ it.

But he could see no other way around it.

This was necessary.

“You want to resign. From the Royal Guard.”

“YES.”

“You realize this is unprecedented, do you not?”

“I DO.”

No one _resigned_ from the Royal Guard, not in _any_ monster’s living memory save maybe Toriel’s, or her estranged husband’s.

The Guard was considered a lifetime commitment—mostly in the sense that commitment meant a definitive _ending_ to your lifetime, a life and inevitable (probably early) death in service to the Empress.

Asking to _leave_ just wasn’t _done._

…Except.

“Why?”

Toriel’s voice is hard as she asks it, and when Sans looks up at her, her eyes are icy, without so much as a trace of her fiery nature.

“What is so important to you,” she demands, “that you would seek to turn your back on the crown?”

“MAY I SPEAK FREELY?” Sans asks.

“I am ordering you to.”

“THEN, I AM NOT TURNING MY BACK ON THE CROWN. NOR YOU. I RESPECT YOU, YOUR MAJESTY, MORE THAN _ANY_ MONSTER I HAVE EVER KNOWN. THE EMPIRE YOU’VE BUILT, THE PEOPLE YOU HAVE KEPT IN LINE LONG ENOUGH TO LEAD TO FREEDOM, THE LIFE YOU’RE MAKING EVEN NOW FOR YOURSELF… I…ADMIRE YOU, GREATLY, AND IF MY SERVICES ARE EVER NEEDED, I WON’T _HESITATE_ TO COME AT YOUR CALL.”

It’s the truth, and he hopes Toriel can see that in his face and in his body language, as open as either have ever been around her.

“…BUT. I’M NOT…REALLY NEEDED HERE NOW…AM I?” Sans huffs out a sound that could almost be a laugh, in another life. “MONSTERKIND IS FREE. WE’RE AT PEACE WITH HUMANITY. THE NEED FOR THE GUARD IS… OF COURSE, THERE IS STILL A NEED FOR THE GUARD, EVEN IN PEACETIMES, BUT… I PLAY BODYGUARD NOW INSTEAD OF PEACEKEEPER. I DO PAPERWORK INSTEAD OF PATROLS. ANY SOLDIER COULD FILL THAT NICHE, IT DOESN’T _HAVE_ TO BE ME ANYMORE.”

Toriel narrows her eyes a bit.

“If you are seeking higher honors—”

“I’M NOT.” Sans sighs, letting his posture sag, bearing the full weight of the truth. “I’M _TIRED._ I… I JOINED THE ROYAL GUARD… BECAUSE IT NEEDED ME, AND BECAUSE I NEEDED IT. BECAUSE……BECAUSE I WAS FOURTEEN AND FIGHTING AND KILLING WAS THE ONLY THING I KNEW HOW TO DO WELL ENOUGH TO LIVE ON IT, AND I HAD A CHILD TO PROTECT AND TO PROVIDE FOR.”

Sans can see a flash of surprise, maybe even a maternal sort of horror flickering across Toriel’s face, but he wants neither sympathy nor pity.

“IT’S ALL DIFFERENT NOW,” Sans says. “I’M GROWN. MY BROTHER IS GROWN. THERE’S PEACE, FOR THE MOST PART, AND I…DON’T…NEED TO DO THIS, ANYMORE. I DON’T _WANT_ TO. I’M DONE. I…WANT TO BE DONE. I WANT TO DO OTHER THINGS, WITH MY LIFE. …I WANT TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY FAMILY.”

The last was an admittedly calculated sentence, knowing the Empress’ soft-spot for that particular f-word, but it wasn’t a lie.

 _None_ of what Sans is telling Toriel now is a lie, or even an exaggeration.

It’s just the culmination of weeks upon weeks of self-reflection, analysis of his life and himself as they are and as he wants them to be.

Working at the Embassy, and as Captain of the Royal Guard, on the Surface… it takes his time and his energy, without the fulfilment that it used to provide.

He doesn’t need the protection of his rank anymore, not really, and neither does his brother.

Sans can do something else, if he wants to.

He can _be_ something else.

He can _have_ something else.

Sans straightens, resuming proper parade rest with his hands behind his back, the mask of professionalism back in place.

“OF COURSE, I WILL STAY ON AS LONG AS YOU DEEM NECESSARY. I WILL SEE TO THE COMPLETION OF ALL MY DUTIES TO MY USUAL STANDARD OF EFFICIENCY FOR THE DURATION OF MY TRANSITION OUT, OR UNTIL I CAN FULLY TRAIN A REPLACEMENT TO YOUR SATISFACTION. WHATEVER COURSE OF ACTION YOU DEEM BEST, I WILL ADHERE TO IT, BUT MY INTENTION TO RESIGN IS FIRM AND I APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE IT CAUSES YOU.”

The Empress’ face is…hard to read, even for Sans.

He remains stock-still as she slowly turns and walks to her desk, picking up his letter.

“…I will need to think on this,” she says, frowning a bit. “No one has _resigned_ since before the _Barrier_ was erected, I do not even _remember_ the protocol, though I am sure you have likely broken it.”

A knot of _something_ deep inside of Sans’ chest eases a bit at the vaguely surly words.

“PLEASE FORGIVE ME, YOUR MAJESTY,” he demurs.

“We shall see,” she mutters. And when he does not move, a flippant wave of her paw. “You are _dismissed,_ Captain. I will inform you of my decision when I have made it.”

Sans bows, thanks her, and leaves her to resume his duties.

He receives his discharge papers—awarding full honors and accolades—three months later, and an invitation to his own retirement party a week after that.

Several guardsmen give ~~touching~~ rousing speeches in his honor, Alphys hardly cries at all when she formally pins a few final medals to his chest, and the salute that all his fellow soldiers and even _Toriel herself_ give him at the end of the evening makes Sans’ own sockets a touch misty.

He shows off his gift basket to you and Papyrus when he arrives home late that night, and your ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s over the bottles of expensive red wine, the fancy fountain pen, and the specially engraved brand new pocket-watch are suitably impressed for his liking.

Sans shares none of this with Bridget beyond a passing mention of his changing career.

“How _is_ your new job treating you?” she asks one afternoon.

“WELL,” says Sans. “I LIKE WORKING WITH NUMBERS.”

The modest little corporation that enlisted him to be their dedicated actuary offers good benefits, decent pay, and interesting challenges for him to calculate and solve on a daily basis.

And more importantly, his hours are a set 8-to-5 and he’s _never_ scheduled on the weekend.

“MORE TIME TO SPEND WITH MY FAMILY, TOO…”

“That’s wonderful, Sans, I’m glad.”

Sans smiles.

“SO AM I.”

-

Bridget gives him a real humdinger of a question towards the end of one of their sessions.

“How would you describe yourself, Sans?”

Sans is already opening his mouth to respond when she adds the tricky caveat.

 _“Without_ saying anything that you _do_ for someone else. Who are _you?”_

Sans thinks about it…but actually formulating a _sentence_ …one that fits within the constraints given…

“I…I DON’T KNOW,” he says, allowing himself the admission.

 _I DON’T KNOW IF I’VE **EVER** KNOWN, REALLY,_ he does not allow himself to say, because there’s nowhere _near_ enough time left for them today to get into _that._

Bridget seems to realize this as well.

“You can think about it,” she encourages. “The most ‘normal,’ well-adjusted person in the world would probably need a long weekend to mull that one over all the way.”

“SO I’LL BE IN MY EIGHTIES WHEN I FIGURE IT OUT, THEN?”

“I hope not,” Bridget says mildly. “I’ll be dead by then.”

Sans chuckles.

“Really, it’s just a thought. I only want you to think about it, I’m not going to ask you to submit an answer in writing or anything.”

“YES, I KNOW. I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. …PROBABLY NOT TONIGHT, THOUGH,” he adds after a second of thought.

Bridget’s interest is piqued.

“Oh? What’s tonight?”

“WHY, DR. WILSON, AFTER ALL THIS TIME, YOU DON’T KNOW MY _BIRTHDAY?_ I’M HURT!”

Bridget only laughs at his mock-aggrieved tone.

“Well, maybe I’d have known it if you hadn’t moved it,” she teases.

“WELL, MAYBE I WOULDN’T HAVE MOVED IT IF YOU HADN’T SUGGESTED IT,” he teases in return.

Sans hadn’t been wholly in favor of the idea, at first.

It had seemed silly to him to just…call a different day his ‘birthday’ when he never even really celebrated the damn thing to begin with.

~~What was to celebrate about his Tube Extraction Day? The day he was dragged into a shitty existence with a shitty guardian who got the ball rolling on trauma the likes of which he was _still_ coping with as a grown skeleton?~~

But slowly, the idea of moving it—choosing a different day to celebrate on, untainted by bad associations—had grown in Sans’ mind, and started to gain _some_ sort of appeal, and you had been supportive, and Papyrus was so happy that he actually wanted to _celebrate_ for once that he hadn’t even questioned it, and…

Well.

Today was his birthday, now.

“Happy birthday,” Bridget says, “though I’m sure that’d have had more oomph if I’d been told beforehand so I could thoughtfully remember it for you.”

“C’EST LA VIE. THANK YOU, ANYWAY.”

“Any plans for tonight?”

“SUPPOSEDLY,” Sans shrugs. “THOUGH I’VE NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE. I’VE JUST BEEN TOLD TO KEEP MY EVENING CLEAR AND BE HOME BY SEVEN AT THE LATEST.”

Bridget looks over at the clock on the far wall.

It reads 6:53 PM.

“You’d best get a move-on then, don’t you think?”

“YES,” Sans agrees with a wink. “I DO.”

And in the blink of an eye, he’s back home.

The party horns and confetti-poppers go off _instantly_ , and Sans is laughing as you and Papyrus descend upon him, welcoming him home.

He graciously accepts the kiss you give him, and not-so-graciously smacks away the ‘OLDER THAN DIRT’ ribbon Papyrus tries to slyly stick on him while he is distracted.

As is his duty as the Birthday Skeleton, he allows himself to be led to the den and pretends not to notice his brother slipping away to retrieve he-couldn’t-guess-what, and even acts _very_ surprised when a _cake_ of all things is brought in!

(He puts a stop to the Birthday Song, however: a man has to draw the line _somewhere._ )

Still, you and Papyrus clap half-playfully and half-earnestly when he blows out the candles and Sans feels warm when you announce that it’s time for presents.

“mine first,” Papyrus insists, only to set a _gigantic_ box down on the floor in front of Sans.

“…THIS IS A PRANK,” Sans guesses, sockets narrowed. “THERE’S A CASCADE OF SMALLER WRAPPED BOXES IN HERE AND AT THE CENTER, IT’S JUST A GUMBALL IN A JEWELRY BOX OR SOMETHING, RIGHT?”

“Snrk… Are you sure you’re not projecting?” you wonder cheekily. “That sounds like something _you_ would do.”

 _“has_ done. my fourteenth, i almost killed him…”

“YOU ALMOST _TRIED.”_

Papyrus does not rise to the taunt.

“as much as you’d _deserve_ the payback, no. just open it.”

Sans sighs, rolling his eye-lights but tearing the paper off of the comically large box, looking for the best place to open it.

When he does find a taped-up seam and breaks through, pulling open the flaps to reveal the contents of the present…

His soul stutters in his chest.

Sans’ skull immediately whips around to his brother, staring at him in stunned silence.

Papyrus says nothing, offering only a sheepish little shrug in response, and Sans turns back to the box.

It does not contain smaller boxes.

It doesn’t contain anything, in fact, but a disorganized-looking pile of wood.

Very, _very_ familiar pieces of wood.

Sans reaches in, pulling one out and turning it over in his claws, just to be sure he isn’t mistaken.

He isn’t.

These are…his.

His failures, _all_ of them, every single one he’d thrown away, _right_ here in front of him.

They look a _little_ different, of course.

Papyrus, it seems, has taken the initiative to paint them—suitable colors for the recognizable figures, complementary palettes for the more abstract shapes that weren’t supposed to be anything—but beyond that…

Sans’ memory must be crueler than he realized, because even with a fresh and bright coat of paint on them, they don’t look nearly as bad as he remembered them to be.

“PAPYRUS…” he breathes, setting one piece down and picking up another. “YOU…?”

“…i liked ‘em,” Papyrus says awkwardly. “i thought they were cool, so i… y’know. plus, they’re a gift now, you _can’t_ throw ‘em out again, it’d be _rude.”_

Even after _months_ of therapy, Sans doesn’t have _remotely_ the emotional vocabulary to tell his brother the magnitude of this gift and how much it means to him; how _touched_ he is, and how dearly he loves his little sibling to have even _thought_ of this.

Luckily, he and Papyrus have a pretty good shorthand for things like that.

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT,” he tells Papyrus, who beams and leans over the box to force a hug on him.

“love you, too, bro.”

Sans grumbles, but returns the hug anyway.

“I don’t know if I can top that,” you admit, “but…”

Sans takes the wrapped box from your hands before you can say another word.

“IT’S FROM YOU,” he says matter-of-factly. “I TRUST YOUR TASTE.”

Sans pauses, glancing pointedly at Papyrus.

“…MOST OF THE TIME.”

“nyeheheheheh…!”

“Hahaha!”

He carefully tears through your wrapping to the delightful sound of your laughter, unveiling your gift.

Gift _s_ , apparently, all part of a very clear theme: a bag of gourmet popcorn kernels, a whole jug of ‘theater grade’ butter-flavored oil, a brand new popcorn machine, _and_ a freshly released film, still sealed in cellophane and ready to be watched.

Sans turns to you, already grinning as you explain, “I remember you wanted to see that when it came out… Maybe it’s a little late now—”

He takes your hand in his, pulling your fingers up to his teeth for a kiss(-equivalent nuzzle).

“NEVER TOO LATE, MY DEAR,” he purrs, delighting in your shy, yet pleased smile. “I LOVE IT. IS THIS THE PLAN FOR THE EVENING?”

“More or less, yeah.”

A quiet evening in, watching a movie and shoveling salt and grease into his face with the two people he cares about most in the world…

“I COULDN’T HAVE ASKED FOR A BETTER BIRTHDAY,” he tells you fondly, meaning every word.

The next several minutes contain many things: moving the box of painted whittling out of the way, cracking open a bottle from his retirement gift basket, an argument over whether ‘no cooking on your birthday’ supersedes ‘IT’S MY PRESENT AND IF YOU USE IT BEFORE I DO, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU,’ dimming the lights and getting the movie ready to go.

It also contains a sensual whisper from you on the sly, that Sans has yet _another_ present, one he’ll get to _unwrap_ later, when it’s just the two of you, and that’s it’s own sort of exciting.

But as Sans settles himself down on the couch for the evening, he thinks that maybe… he could think of a few ways to answer Dr. Wilson’s question after all.

_**“Without** saying anything that you **do** for someone else. Who are **you?”**_

Sans is…Papyrus’ brother.

He’s your lover, and your partner.

He’s a full-time actuary, a part-time craftsman, and (to a certain Ellen’s great and _terrible_ dismay) the newly-elected Treasurer of his neighborhood Homeowner’s Association…for as long as _that_ still existed.

He’s…

He is Sans.

And that…feels like enough for him.

Papyrus gracelessly plops down on the couch to his left, ‘casually’ resting his elbow directly atop Sans’ shoulder like he’s _not_ being an ungrateful little shit on purpose.

You slide in on his right next, though, with the glass of wine he’d forgotten in the kitchen in one hand and a big bowl of fluffy, buttery popcorn in the other.

Sans takes his glass with a grateful peck to your cheek, and Papyrus digs around in the cushions for the remote to get the movie playing, and you put the popcorn bowl in Sans’ lap so you can edge in _just_ a little closer, cuddling right up against his side.

As the film begins to play on the TV, Sans really, truly cannot think of a _single_ thing more he could wish to have in his life right now.

He has _everything_ he needs right here.

And Sans is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, at long last, the Sans Intentionally Works On His Mental Health chapter...!


End file.
